This poem is taken from PN Review 50, Volume 12 Number 6, July - August 1986.
The Quarry at HaytorEach numb bud
held in a vice
locked beyond echo
in its chamber of ice:
and the waterfall solid,
clipped to the sill
of the high scarp,
acutely still.
In the pent silence
we made birds sing,
shared the pulse
of water quickening:
and as we watched,
by our warm power
the soft-fleshed trees
burst into flower.
Later, autumn
rusted the heather
...
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