Shying at newness, an emptiness behind
Scorched linden trees still crowding in around
The moorland house, now just one more wallstead
Where youngsters gathered up from god knows where
Hunted and yelled and ran wild in a pack.
Yet all of them fell silent when he appeared,
The son of the place, and with a long forked stick
Dragged an out-of-shape old can or kettle
From under hot, half burnt-away house-beams;
And then, like one with a doubtful tale to tell,
Turned to the others present, at great pains
To make them realize what had stood so.
For now that it was gone, it all seemed
Far stranger: more fantastical than Pharaoh.
And he was changed: a foreigner among them.
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