We started at the edge of town.
The signs were stencil-bright, massed
Along the road, and named
Familiar food and smokes and gas;
But the open meadows were ringed with
Half-rough, broken brush, cut trunks,
Becoming wooded shade just anyhow.
Then the sun rode easy with us over the brow
Of the hill, and fields were stencil-clear,
Furrows precise, textures even, this rough tan,
That curved brown, green particulars
In carved frames, houses placed with care
On smoothly painted pillows.
Well, we said, Look at that;
And came to the village, where we passed
Worn, obscure signs of vanished shops
That sold the food and smokes and gas
Our fathers found familiar.