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.
From The Collected Poems of Amy Clampitt, published by Alfred A. Knopf. Copyright © 1997. Used with permission from the Estate of Amy Clampitt.