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On the death of a poet
for Ted Hughes, Poet Laureate
An endless line of foxes
terminates at this point.
The calling is silent.
Oak shadows declare a finish,
stretch stark savage fingers
to a vergeless hedge
where small corpses lie
uncelebrated, alone,
skulls bleaching unattended.
Much of the purpose is gone.
Iron men have found their bones,
breathless in a darker land.
Somerset 1998
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