I've just discovered Iris Murdoch's lovely little book of short poems: A Year of Birds.
Each poem is accompanied by a wood engraving by Reynolds Stone.
The book is absolutely beautiful and very different from Murdoch's usual novels and philosophical writings.
Inland seagulls never cry ai-ai, ai-ai
But silently in winter trail
Behind the plough their kite tail.
Without a sound they pass me by
As pale as paper in the white winter sky.
Oh why do they never cry
Ai-ai, ai-ai?