The Skylark

A moorland in spring, the soft wind tousling my hair and shafts of sunlight in the gaps between clouds. I lie back in the heather, luxuriating in warmth, the first time in the year the weather has made stillness possible on the hillside. I stare at the boundless sky, heather scratching my cheek, and then I hear it. The song of a skylark. My heart leaps a little, as it always does.

A while ago I read Shelley's 'Ode to a Skylark'. 'hmph,' I thought, 'I can do better than that.' I started writing thoughts and lyrics down, but when I came to write the lines:

The singing stops: he falls to ground.
The lady skylarks gather round.

I stopped in disgust. Percy B can rest easy, for now at least. But what neither I nor Shelley quite captured was the simple joy of the skylark's song. To me it is the soundtrack to the best of places at the finest time of year: it is the keynote to happiness and freedom.

Get yourself up to a moorland on a fine day in spring or early summer and hear it for yourself.