DISTRUST...

I believe in those who live on a farm
and break the soil.
They take their strength from nourishing earth,
and strengthen the earth as well.

I distrust those who seek in want
a distant home.
They gladden so few, and only their sort.
But I am one of them.

Sooner my starving soul, I suppose,
like a dog with no master would stray
suspiciously shy round barred-up house
and freeze pitifully away,

than be chained fast to watch its farm
in honourable calling
and raise to the homeless migrant pack
a conviction-ridden howling.

I see them move over moor and marsh
wherever the dream will fly.
I know that I am blood of their blood.
What use then am I?