At night the village dropped its blinds,
Its shutters closed, its curtains drawn,
And pillows piled to drown the scrape
And rake and ratchet calls of crakes.
The meadows sweet with flower heads,
Alive with honey bees and hay,
Cut once by hand and dried in air:
The birds could find their shelter there.
The echo owls call out for hours,
And nightingales let flow their stars.
The village knew their world was right:
They tended, coppiced, nurtured flight.
The villages knew the summer nights
Were full of corncrakes, full of life.