To the village of lace and stone Came strangers. I was one of these Always observant and slightly obscure. I roamed the hills of bird and bone Rescuing bees from under the storm: Five hills rocked and four homes fell The day I remember the raid so well. Eyes shone like cups chipped and stiff The living bled the dead lay in their grief Cows, sheep, horses, all had got struck Black as bird wounds, red as wild duck. Dead as icebone breaking the hedge. Dead as soil failing of good heart. Dead as trees quivering with shock At the hot death from the plane       O the cold loss of cattle       With their lovely big eyes.       The emptiness of sheds,       The rick stacked high.       The breast of the hills       Will soon turn grey       As the dogs that grieve       And I that fetched them in:       For the good gates are closed       In the yard down our way. 'But my loss. My loss is deeper Than Rosie's of Chapel House Farm For I met death before birth: Fought for life and in reply lost My own with a cold despair. I hugged the fire around the hearth To warm the beat and wing Yet knew the symbol when it came Lawrence had found the same. I threw the starling hard as stone Into the breaking earth...' Dead as icebone breaking the hedge. Dead as soil failing of good heart. Dead as trees quivering with shock At the hot death from the plane       O the salt loss of life       Her lovely green ways.       The emptiness of crib       And big stare of night.       The breast of the hills       Yield a bucket of milk:       But the crane no longer cries       With the round birds at dawn       For the home has been shadowed       A storm of sorrow drowned the way.