A poem sent to me by my friend David, in response to yesterday's post and maybe today's earlier one as well:

Clock-O'-Clay

John Clare

In the cowslip pips I lie, 
Hidden from the buzzing fly, 
While green grass beneath me lies, 
Pearled with dew like fishes' eyes, 
Here I lie, a clock-o'-clay, 
Waiting for the time o' day.

While the forest quakes surprise, 
And the wild wind sobs and sighs, 
My home rocks as like to fall, 
On its pillar green and tall; 
When the pattering rain drives by 
Clock-o'-clay keeps warm and dry.

Day by day and night by night, 
All the week I hide from sight; 
In the cowslip pips I lie, 
In the rain still warm and dry; 
Day and night and night and day, 
Red, black-spotted clock-o'-clay.

My home shakes in wind and showers, 
Pale green pillar topped with flowers, 
Bending at the wild wind's breath, 
Till I touch the grass beneath; 
Here I live, lone clock-o'-clay, 
Watching for the time of day.