In a field in the County of Glamorgan.
You won't find it named in any guidebook.
It lies, plonk, in the middle of rising ground,
forty-four paces long,high as your eyes,
It begins for no reason, ends no place.
No other walls are adjacent to it.
Seemingly unremarkable, it's just there,
Stones of different sizes, different greys.
Don't say this wall is useless, that the grass
On the shadow side is much like the other.
It exists for golden lichens to settle,
For butterflies in their obstacle race
Chasing each other to the winning post,
For huddling sheep in a slanting rainfall,
For you to say, “This wall is beautiful.”