If I lifted my eyes, a factory chimney And a dormant mountain. If I listened, an engine shunting And a trotting horse. Is it any wonder when I thought I would have second thoughts? II When they spoke of the prudent squirrel’s hoard It shone like gifts at a nativity. When they spoke of the mammon of iniquity The coins in my pockets reddened like stove-lids. I was the march drain and the march drain’s banks Suffering the limit of each claim. III Two buckets were easier carried than one. I grew up in between. My left hand placed the standard iron weight. My right tilted a last grain in the balance.