The Scalped Hill.

An arabesque of mowing lies
Above a hasty cross
At the brow of a knoll, exposed:
Both grass and soul carelessly reaped,
A yawning duty done by Death,

Hot, impatient to get on with it and
Scalp the next hill, mow down the next
In line. Let them decorate
The bordure of the road with White
Wood, plush crucified bears, stuffed
Behind embrasures of chicken-wire.
The cars pass on, the earth hurtles clockwise
And we counter the unbearable weight
As best we can.