Farm Exile

I have come out to this strange land Where there are hills on either hand; I have seen granite piled as high, Man lifted, toward a city sky. And here a river deep and dark Flows like a drunken pencil mark, Yet all its waters could be sucked Through one stupendous aqueduct. Alien am I, where cedars frown Thicker than houses of the town; Alien am I where meadows mock As flat as roof tops, block on block, With little mounds that well might be The sunken graves of Trinity. Beneath my foot I crush the sod, It keeps a print of where I trod Yet makes no sound. My ears are blurred By silence louder than a word; And always I am wondering why There is such plentitude of sky, Its blueness strangely curved and curled Around the edges of the world. Here farms, a dozen wards in size Unfold before my startled eyes, And creatures, each one strange and new, Come slowly lumbering into view, And if I walk or stand or lie They stare at me as they go by, Watching me play my little part, Knowing the fear within my heart.