I have not heard a cuckoo here since childhood
when fields were wilder and trees less sparse.
I heard one this year in Gascony,
on the Plateau de Lannemazan,
on a wooded ridge with the late March winds
from the Pyrenees rasping the corn stubs
in the field below and rushing
through the budding trees bright with lichen
and ruffling the flowers on the blackthorn
and the violets among the leaf mould.
Between a gap in the trees the ridge way
was bare limestone.