we contained purpose within ourselves.
We halted, stopped at fen and bog,
fumid clouds hazing crooked walls
and coarse sea language spoken.
Northern islands clamped in thighs of fog
that grasped and held our septs
beneath umber cast of hills, soft ancient fields,
Patched boards of grubbery, pale loam and stone
scratched and combed by our bent figures.
The wheels of time switched to straight lines,
the dewed moor surrendered to metal hammers.
On cavernous floors, capital swelled like fruit
as a sullen mass fought and bred, skin tanned by sweat.
We fled, were exiled, we left.
Trimming azure fields, deadly, distant coasts,
tracking the rim of silent lands.
A dotted line on a cartographer’s mirage,
we swung through storm and trenched in slough.
Our women sweltered in modesty. Our men’s beards itched
We considered silently “where will we come to?
We are in the Lord’s hands.”