Your English Background

You, the land,
razed and plowed,
deep furrows running through
where forest once stood.

And now, again,
second growth,
in scattered poles,
bracken, peat and bog,
high winds of highlands.

You bear the heft
of Sarsen,
dragged across the windy plain,
land shaped like blue stone,
bit by bit
until

having chipped away,
the edges no longer sharp
but shorn by patient hands,
you give witness,
watchman like,
ghastly Cerberus,
Avon, Lethe or Styx,
no matter:

You,
this foreign land.

Shaped by man,
reclaimed at last,
sprung
from your forever womb.

5 Poems by Gary Snyder

One of my absolute favorites.