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Let the downpour roil and toil!
The worst it can do to me
Is carry some garden soil

Lord, I have loved your sky,
Be it said against or for me,
Have loved it clear and high

It took that pause to make him realize
The mountain he was climbing had the slant
As of a book held up before his eyes

There’s first a gloveless hand warm from my pocket,
A perch and resting place ‘twixt wood and wood,
Bright-black-eyed silvery creature, brushed with brown

The land was ours before we were the land’s.
She was our land more than a hundred years
Before we were her people. She was ours

She is as in a field a silken tent
At midday when a sunny summer breeze
Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent

Writers find a way to challenge and chronicle the consciences of their nations.

Is this the very face
of an angry God, or simply
his instrument?