by Amy Clampitt

    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-

    pelted¹ sheep up on the moor²；

    a stile， a church spire³，

    and an excess， at Porlock，

    of tenderly barbarous antique

    thatch⁴ in tandem⁵ with flower-

    beds， relentlessly⁶ pictur-

    esque， along every sidewalk；

    a millwheel； and a millbrook

    running down brown as beer.

    Exempt⁷ 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 flick⁸

    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 smothering⁹ 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.

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