Once, a school boy on my way to the bus stop in the morning, I saw a snake in the process of eating a frog. It was only halfway through, and the frog's hindquarters jutted out of the snake's mouth, its legs still twitching. Another frog, as yet unconsumed, hopped away in terror.
I was filled with more terror and disgust by the fleeing frog than the snake and its prey. All this background explains why in Death Of A Naturalist I finally found a Seamus Heaney poem I could respond to on anything more than a distant, intellectual level.