That wall perhaps was made of local stone
Three centuries before, alive with fissures
Cracked by frost and colonized in moss —
Some stones had fallen to the scented moor

The poets of today revere the dust,
The weed that through the tarmac drills,
The lichen that dissolve and paint raw concrete,
All blossoms in the trash of highway verges.

We slide along a tyranny of walls
Too flat to grasp and sloping in above us.
The prophet told so well how we would make
The crooked straight and all rough places plain

A rush of wheels is wearing down our senses;
We crave the rock, the bark, the wave, the crag.