One sunday evening in mid May
A bright though fairly breezy day
The wind blown grass did nod and sway
As through lush green mead i trod my way.
As i walked through a patch of rush
A bird scarce half the size of full grown thrush
Upward from the ground did fly
Uttering forth a chirping cry.
By her worried chirps i knew 'twas clear
That this bird's nest was somewhere near
And my presence caused her much unrest
As she feared that i might rob her nest.
On hands and knees i searched around
The six foot square of rushy ground
Parted a bunch of rush and see
The meadow pipit's family.
In little nest of dried grass there
Four pink skinned nestlings blind and bare
With mouths agape the pipits brood
Thought i was mother back with food.
In little cheeps i heard them plead
As with mouths wide open they begged for feed
These future songsters of the mead
Four tiny birds of pipit breed.
On nearby hedge a throstle sang
And all around me voice of gladness rang
And multicoloured butterflies
Were dancing in the bright May skies.
Since then a month of days gone by
And still my heart pulsates with joy
Each time the pleasant memory
Of pipit's nest return to me.