Over the fog-smothered marshes we splashed on our way to the quay
Under a blind yellow moon bemused in a mizzle of rain,
When low through the yelping of gulls and the muffled wash-wash of the sea
Suddenly shuddered a voice — the voice of a creature in pain.
Cold at my heart, I stopped dead in the causeway and, listening hard,
I muttered, and half to myself — It's surely a human moaning!
But still stumping steadily on Pete grumbled — It's naught but the groaning —
The groaning and fash of a young cow calving in Angerton's Yard.

Yet again as we steered for the pots through the breathless and mist-moithered night,
Coldly over my heart that shuddering, smothering cry,
Low through the salty fret and the dazzle of drizzly light
Echoing, sobbed and moaned, then sank to a shivering sigh;
And under my breath as I stooped again to the oars, rowing hard,
I muttered once more to myself — It's surely a human moaning!
And only the oars in the rowlocks creaked in answer — It's naught but the groaning —
The groaning and fash of a young cow calving in Angerton's Yard.

Dead they found her next day, the mothering girl, in the dyke,
Strayed from the track in the fog and foundered, sucked down in the gloam.
For lightness of heart and for laughter none ever had known her like:
Heavy and quiet she lay, grave-eyed, as they carried her home;
And the trudge of the bearers' feet to my icy-cold heart beating hard
As it still muttered over and over — It's surely a human moaning!
Mocked with a splashing thud-thud, as in answer — It's naught but the groaning —
The groaning and fash of a young cow calving in Angerton's Yard.

And ever across the saltmarshes, making our way to the quay
By moonlight or starlight or murk, in fog or fair weather or rain,
Low through the yelping of gulls and the whisper or crash of the sea
Suddenly shudders a voice — the voice of a creature in pain;
And vainly I cover my ears with my hands as my heart listens hard,
Muttering and mumbling too late — It's surely a human moaning!
Bitterly mocking itself in answer — It's naught but the groaning —
The groaning and fash of a young cow calving in Angerton's Yard.