my own hill

The southern fields were green before our thaw I took a little time to walk the ground Told myself from everything I saw I ought to want the place that I had found A man could put his spade in anywhere Scarcely strike a stone the whole day through I said as much to one who farmed the land there He shrugged and said he had his troubles too Maybe I was called Maybe I was held By nothing I could name But I could name the places on our hill Where water gathered underneath the snow And where the rye did poorly and would still However often someone had a go I might have stayed I cannot tell you why The thought of staying made me want to leave The fields were good beneath that easy sky There was no fault in them I could perceive Maybe I was bound Maybe I was lost To what I knew by heart But I could name the places on our hill Where water gathered underneath the snow And where the rye did poorly and would still However often someone had a go I reached the farm one evening in the rain A neighbour saw me working at the gate He helped me lift it level on its chain Then asked me what had made me come so late We stood a while and watched the river rise There had been rain enough to spoil the hay He had no better country in his eyes But plenty he would have to do that day I want my little piece of hillside here Above the reach of any river flood And someone sowing barley year by year To stop and scrape his boots against the mud