Mayday on Holderness
This evening, motherly summer moves in the pond.
I look down into the decomposition of leaves— The furnace door whirling with larva:.
From Hull's sunset smudge Humber is melting eastward, my south skyline : A loaded single vein, it drains The effort of the inert North—Sheffield's ores, Bog pools, dregs of toadstools, tributary Graves, dunghills, kitchens, hospitals.
The unkillable North Sea swallows it all.
Insects, drunken, drop out of the air. Birth-soils, The sea-salts, scoured me, cortex and intestine, To receive these remains.
As the incinerator, as the sun, As the spider, I had a whole world in my hands. Flowerlike, I loved nothing.
Dead and unborn are in God comfortable. What a length of gut is growing and breathing— This mute eater, biting through the mind's Nursery floor, with eel and hyena and vulture, With creepy-crawly and the root, With the sea-worm. entering its birthright.
The stars make pietas. The owl announces its sanity.
The crow sleeps glutted and the stoat begins. There are eye-guarded eggs in these hedgerows, Hot haynests under the roots-in burrows. Couples at their pursuits are laughing in the lanes.
The North Sea lies soundless. Beneath it Smoulder the wars: to heart-beats, bomb, bayonet. 'Mother, Mother !' cries the pierced helmet. Cordite oozings of Gallipoli, Curded to beastings, broached my palate, The expressionless gaze of the leopard, The coils of the sleeping anaconda, The nightlong frenzy of shrews.
TED HUGHES
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