In the beginning
God stuck his thumb-print
on these hills in peat, sour grass,
the ritual scourging by wind,
and then forgot.

Until the time
our fathers came,
dug-in on slaty scree,
performed their bloody-minded miracle,
conjuring drab towns out of mist,
and still survive in us.

Surely, some day
this doggedness will earn
a blessing,
the peat ooze fat,
the cold streams run wine,
and corn spring from the bare rock.

If not,
no matter.
We shall stick it out.
You can't just sling your hook
when the wrong half
belongs to you
by squatter's right