'Crying the Neck' Gunwalloe (Cornwall).

            

       The buzzard softly ploughed circles in the harvest sky:

       The breeze gently whispered through the hedgerow,

       Fingering yellow leaves already cursed to earth,

       As if fearful of breaking the hallowed moment.

       The old hare sat on his haunches among the stubble,

       Omen-eyed shape-changer that he is,

       Who creeps home late after harvest supper.

       Rose hips bled on naked prickly stems:

       John Barley wept beneath the acorn tree

       Down in the old meadow.

       "I Hav'n, I Hav'n," cried the farmer.

       "What Havee?” asked the Corn Men.

       "A Neck, a Neck," cried the farmer,

       As he held the last sheaf aloft for all to see.

       The throng moved off in silence,

       Their eyes lowered, as if in homage,

       To the good earth, drawn

       By the ringing of bells,

       The chime of six,

       From the church of St. Winwaloe,

       The little 'Church of Storms',

       Down in the cove.

       No pilgrim dared look up

       To see the buzzard who sang of death,

       Ever circling in the sky.