Of the firm landscape
Men see much
But hold little for sure

What they learn is grown
Before work
Gathers them into a field

Each one admires
A settling
In place, and never going

From the land, all know
There comes not
A house, a room, a pillow

No tractor forms,
Foliaged
With rust, from the earth alone

No post-box rises
From sheathed leaves
Like a new, humble flower

No telephone poles
Mark a road
Back to where all life started