Written by: Carl Nel

These furrows, littered with bags,
Separate stalks
Bent over and inclined to suns of ambition – 
And escape.

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
Just beyond
This grid-like field
In an old decaying greenhouse?