With lichen pock-marked limestone And Celtic arms outspread Among the poisoned branches The yew trees guard the dead. The Winter followed Summer Where death in death-cell lay And Summer followed Summer Where life grew from decay. He leaned upon the headstone And fixed a sharpening eye On corncrake berating The sidestone on the scythe. He nudged the blade begrudging The wreath that lost its charm By moss embossing hieroglyph Of famous and forlorn. He named the unknown nameless The weather had effaced, Forgotten generations That living seed replaced. He searched for winter harvest With curving snead and arm And reaped with frugal instinct Of farmer with no farm. The sun pored out its summer And withered overhead, The corncrake still grated His life among the dead.