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.
