So much depends upon.

The grass - green.
The chickens, they are
white.
Thunder echoes
in the Western night.
The wind, like horses galloping
in the air, drive away the clouds,
and in rolls
the morning tide.
The first golden rays
of heaven never seen
fall on the grass, green.
The chickens, there are nine,
Next to a red wheel barrow.
On its surface remain still
the fresh memories of the stormy night.
Its wheels have left their tracks
three muddy trails
from a small cottage
inside which a man awakes
young in mind and old in age,
Sees, he does,
the scene outside.
And springs his mind into stride,
ready to shake all
the poets' pride.
In the light of dawn,
he begins,
so much depends
upon.