I
When I hoked there, I would find
An acorn and a rusted bolt.
If I lifted my eyes, a factory chimney
And a dormant mountain.
If I listened, an engine shunting
And a trotting horse.
Is it any wonder when I thought
I would have second thoughts?
II
When they spoke of the prudent squirrel's hoard
It shone like gifts at a nativity.
When they spoke of the mammon of iniquity
The coins in my pockets reddened like stove-lids.
I was the march drain and the march drain's banks
Suffering the limit of each claim.
III
Two buckets were easier carried than one.
I grew up in between.
My left hand placed the standard iron weight.
My right tilted a last grain in the balance.
Baronies, parishes met where I was born.
When I stood on the central stepping stone
I was the last earl on horseback in midstream
Still parleying, in earshot of his peers.