The scratch of flint and skin of turf,
The chalk of lines wiped clean of birth,
Of suns, of inner lands and fire.
The bitter white of giant’s lives.
Emerging from the thinnest times,
The butterflies are etching tales.
Their ways beyond the track of man:
And man it was, and man they made.
They scraped the turf, they turned the turf,
They symbolised his wreck of turf,
A mastery of their eyes within:
Deluded sense of distant earth.
And there the yellowhammers sing,
And there the lark has taken wing.