These furrows, littered with bags,
Bent over and inclined to suns of ambition –
These shoots grow relentlessly –
In spite of me.
These saplings break the ground
And Send down roots
That anchor them in soils that are too
These ones, potted and clumped, shrubbed,
Must one day stand alone?
And sway in the wind
as the old trees do outside
This grid-like field
In an old decaying greenhouse?
Copyright © Carl Nel