Friday, 24 July 2009


Rough hewn, the men who turned this land,

who milked the sea, who fished the air,

who stacked up walls that soon contain

a farmer’s heart, a farmer’s fire.

Preposterous, an angry moor

transformed to fields of friendly hay;

to trim a beard of barleycorn

and lead his cows to school each day.

Preposterous to grow his bairns

by raking silver from the sea

or netting birds that laugh too loud

and hares that leap like butterflies.

Rough hewn, a face that falls to west:

his body leans against a wall

and whistles every tune he knows.

The point of rest? So he can toil.