The wind is lean as Lent, unkind, kneading
And rolling clods of cloud over the sullen land.
Hungry, I walk on stoney ground, treading
The coarse-grained granite lumps into the caked wet ground.Blunting its blade the plough has pulled and piled,
Where three fields meet, three boulders up into an inadvertent cairn
Or perhaps, turning his face away, denying, stone cold,
A distant, sad homunculus of rock.
Scratches across the spike-spired church, built like a barn, or tomb,
And the huddled homes below. It seems a world
Dispirited, unleavened, no warmth to prove or raise.
It's clear there'll be no bread from stones today.