The small plough continues on this lined page
beyond the moaning ground, the lynching tree, the tornado’s black vengeance,
and the young ploughman feels the change in his veins, heart, muscles, tendons,
till the land lies open like a flag as dawn’s sure
light streaks the field and furrows wait for the sower.
via Forty Acres: a poem for Barack Obama from Nobel winner Derek Walcott – Times Online
