The granite outcrop, still redolent of animals, cold ikon now of valley life where goats were milked, sheep shorn, and spinning- wheels whirred in the white yard. The curlew is silent.
All life has fled the valley, the very rabbit-holes are derelict.
Summer has silenced the river. No children play. Those left pass like ghosts or crowd the empty hearth where fowl or ailing lamb once stirred near the reddened sods. Sorrow folds like an empty sack as tears waste down death's cheek. Night spreads a shroud.