What a pleasure it was today to lie back in the dunes with the sun on the face. Not a sound bar the twittering of the skylarks high above. Shelley enjoyed a similar experience and penned, 'Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! Bird thou never wert - That from Heaven or near it, Pourest thy full heart, In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.' Wordsworth had a bash too and managed 'Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?' Undaunted not, here's my go.
Oh little browne job! Flick of wings!
Beguiling high above the grass
No break for breath thy song thou sings
I thinkest thou breathe through thy ****