To halt for a swig at the pink teats. No. This vast
Of a sow lounged belly-bedded on that black compost,
Dream-filmed. What a vision of ancient hoghood ...
Whose laundry snapped and froze here, who
Kept house against
What the sluttish, rutted sea could do.
Backdrop of sycamores. Sun was striking
While chapel pinnacles over the roofs,
Holding the horses, the clouds, the leaves
Away to the left like reeds in a sea
When the splinter flew in and stuck my eye,
Needling it dark ...
Horses warped on the altering green,
Grazing at the margins of a bad monochrome ...