Those men who come from God

Knowswhere to float their strange

Implements in our dark waters

And drag up the drowned peats

From which they fire their kiln bricks

To build the cottages of some

Future that already shadows us

On hindcocks high in the air

Tough nut-crackers of their trade

They split the turf in four perfect

Sods leaving clean wounds that heal

Over in a summer or less while

The ground we stood on shifted like

quicksand under our feet and we

Could hear them working all night

Through the thin partition of time

Grafting futures onto our pasts

NBELLS Casting and gathering

Their music from the drowned

Spheres of bygone Sundays