Exmoor poem – Amy Clampitt poems | Poems and Poetry

Lost aboard the roll of Kodac-

olor that was to have super-

seded all need to remember

Somerset were: a large flock

of winter-bedcover-thick-

pelted sheep up on the moor;

a stile, a church spire,

and an excess, at Porlock,

of tenderly barbarous antique

thatch in tandem with flower-

beds, relentlessly pictur-

esque, along every sidewalk;

a millwheel; and a millbrook

running down brown as beer.

Exempt from the disaster.

however, as either too quick

or too subtle to put on rec-

ord, were these: the flutter

of, beside the brown water,

with a butterfly-like flick

of fan-wings, a bright black-

and-yellow wagtail; at Dulver-

ton on the moor, the flavor

of the hot toasted teacake

drowning in melted butter

we had along with a bus-tour-

load of old people; the driver

‘s way of smothering every r

in the wool of a West Countr-

y diphthong, and as a Somer-

set man, the warmth he had for

the high, wild, heather-

dank wold he drove us over.