‘I cannot accumulate when others have nothing’

Now houses echo hollow in closed-door village winters,
lightless windows, a let of second-home silence, rental
high-water, never-ending moneyed off-shore-swells,
while he hand-threads still his sweated days with weaving
waves of bluff willow and Flanders red, until the contained
land curves with his fielded fences which will outlive these
drifting years.

‘All land is the common property of the human race’