I can feel the tug
of the halter at the nape
of her neck, (Fr. Punishment by Seamus Heaney)
I couldn't take my chances on the peat bog with a spade.
With every heft and cleave, expect to cleft some poor drowned cow or haltered neck.
Just as I always expect in derelict country lanes (where people abandon stained mattresses),
a bloated blue arm to flop from the thicket.