Invigilation

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 alkaline. 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?