Eric Hesketh Hubbard (1892-1957), "The Cuckmere Valley, East Sussex"
I saw her amid the dunghill debris
Looking for things
Such as an old pair of shoes or gaiters.
She was a young woman,
A tinker's wife.
Her face had streaks of care
Like wires across it,
But she was supple
As a young goat
On a windy hill.
She searched on the dunghill debris,
Over tin canisters
Patrick Kavanagh, Ploughman and Other Poems (1936).
Anne Isabella Brooke, "Wharfedale from above Bolton Abbey" (1954)
The grasses of the garden,
And lie as they fall.
Ryokan (translated by R. H. Blyth), in R. H. Blyth, Haiku, Volume 4: Autumn-Winter (Hokuseido Press 1952), page 366.
I have no idea what distance has to do with any of this. And I don't want to seem coy or pretentious by bringing it up. I'm not harboring any secrets. I'm merely reporting what happened.
Bertram Priestman, "Kilnsey Crag, Wharfedale, Yorkshire" (1929)