The Corncrake time had come again and summer days were dawning. The smell of gorse and meadow bloom did saturate the morning And from the long grass came a sound like “scratch of comb on matchbox edge” The Corncrake had returned again to carry out its yearly pledge. And there I stood on route to school with shoeless feet and fear of cane And listened while that Corncrake claimed; your late again, your late again.

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