There's the creek, the white road, and the woodlot,
where trees long planted stretch now for clean sun;
and – light's conjurement – there's the summer's throw
of half-gold grass upon the stilled breast of
the hill: but hunkered under that, eruptions
in the mantle, rocks that are the real deal,
the bone inside the meat. We meet each morning
for the hard work of the day: pick, spade, wrench,
wire, drills like noisy arrows straight into the wood,
to prick the land with relics of our time.
We're of an age now where the comfort's in
neat excellence when the task's complete.
Chaos once cast charm. It doesn't now.
We lift and dig and grip as balm to loss of joy.
And everywhere and nowhere is the boy.