Stumbling across a field of clods towards a green hedge Neither of which will stop at doors: That dazzled with rifle fire, hearing One will damp beds and the other shake Bullets smacking the belly out of the air – Dreams beneath sleep it cannot break. He lugged a rifle numb as a smashed arm; The patriotic tear that had brimmed in his eye Between the weather and the rock Sweating like molten iron from the centre of his chest, – Farmers make a little heat; Cows that sway a bony back, In bewilderment then he almost stopped – In what cold clockwork of the stars and the nations Pigs upon delicate feet Was he the hand pointing that second? He was running Hold off the sky, trample the strength Like a man who has jumped up in the dark and runs That level these hills at length. Listening between his footfalls for the reason Of his still running, and his foot hung like Buttoned from the blowing mist Statuary in mid-stride. Then the shot-slashed furrows Walk the ridges of ruined stone. What humbles these hills has raised Threw up a yellow hare that rolled like a flame And crawled in a threshing circle, its mouth wide The arrogance of blood and bone, Open silent, its eyes standing out. And thrown the hawk upon the wind, He plunged past with his bayonet toward the green hedge, And lit the fox in the dripping ground. King, honour, human dignity, etcetera Dropped like luxuries in a yelling alarm To get out of that blue crackling air His terror’s touchy dynamite. Six Young Men Crow Hill The celluloid of a photograph holds them well - Six young men, familiar to their friends. The farms are oozing craters in Four decades that have faded and ochre-tinged Sheer sides under the sodden moors: This photograph have not wrinkled the faces or the hands. When it is not wind it is rain, Though their cocked hats are not now fashionable,
Stumbling across a field of clods towards a green hedge That dazzled with rifle fire, hearing Bullets smacking the belly out of the air – He lugged a rifle numb as a smashed arm; The patriotic tear that had brimmed in his eye Sweating like molten iron from the centre of his chest, – In bewilderment then he almost stopped – In what cold clockwork of the stars and the nations Was he the hand pointing that second? He was running Like a man who has jumped up in the dark and runs Listening between his footfalls for the reason Of his still running, and his foot hung like Statuary in mid-stride. Then the shot-slashed furrows Threw up a yellow hare that rolled like a flame And crawled in a threshing circle, its mouth wide Open silent, its eyes standing out. He plunged past with his bayonet toward the green hedge, King, honour, human dignity, etcetera Dropped like luxuries in a yelling alarm To get out of that blue crackling air His terror’s touchy dynamite. Crow Hill The farms are oozing craters in Sheer sides under the sodden moors: When it is not wind it is rain, Neither of which will stop at doors: One will damp beds and the other shake Dreams beneath sleep it cannot break. Between the weather and the rock Farmers make a little heat; Cows that sway a bony back, Pigs upon delicate feet Hold off the sky, trample the strength That level these hills at length. Buttoned from the blowing mist Walk the ridges of ruined stone. What humbles these hills has raised The arrogance of blood and bone, And thrown the hawk upon the wind, And lit the fox in the dripping ground. Six Young Men The celluloid of a photograph holds them well - Six young men, familiar to their friends. Four decades that have faded and ochre-tinged This photograph have not wrinkled the faces or the hands. Though their cocked hats are not now fashionable,