The title deed, in legalese, marks the limits of my land–
Eighty yards wide, a hundred long, from the village road to Reddy’s farm.
But how high up or how far down, it does not say.
The drilling rig thumps and geysers mud, as the well bores into clay;
My fancies range ahead of it– past bedrock to the molten core-
And out again on some far shore.
I look up at stars as they wheel by across “my” own patch of sky.
As I become more rooted in this place –only my mind roams free:
I wonder– do I own this land– or does it now –own me?