September… I’d like to do an inventory of poems to see which month has been written about most, and i think it might be September… it’s such an ambiguous month – do I mean ambiguous? It’s drifting into autumn and yet we can have the most amazing summer-like days, it’s nowhere near winter and yet it can really feel like it. The air is on the change, that subtle difference between seasons which is just in the smell and the feel of it.

Here we are no longer a major agricultural country, our society is not governed by working on the land, however, in John Clare’s time – even though industry was growing like a mighty monster, most of the people still worked in the countryside.

Harvest awakes the morning still

Harvest awakes the morning still
And toils rude groups the valleys fill
Deserted is each cottage hearth
To all life save the crickets mirth
Each burring wheel their sabbath meets
Nor walks a gossip in the streets
The bench beneath its eldern bough
Lined oer with grass is empty now
Where blackbirds caged from out the sun
Could whistle while their mistress spun.
All haunt the thronged fields still to share
The harvests lingering bounty there
As yet no meddling boys resort
About the streets in idle sport
The butterflye enjoys his hour
And flirts unchaced from flower to flower
And humming bees that morning calls
From out the low huts mortar walls
Which passing boy no more controuls
Flye undisturbed about their holes
And sparrows in glad chirpings meet
Unpelted in the quiet street

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