Young wills whine
like masterless spears.
Fear has hurled them
into space’s spheres.
Trembling with battle
and strength in surfeit
they seek targets to strike
they seek powers to worship.

But wills that ripen,
they become trees and strike root,
ready to shield
a land at your foot,
a small stretch of ground,
but necessary, like life,
where something precious grows,
torn by the winds’ strife.

If the glade seems narrow
against space without end
and the tree perhaps lifeless
against spears that blind,
then forget not the leaf
with its life-green colour,
and forget not the sap
that seethes through the marrow.

Be not afraid, be still
that harvest night,
when the voices say:
‘Your bounds are set.
You too shall be silent
among the watching faithful.
You also shall strike root,
and become tree, and ripen.’

- Karin Boye

under red and violet vespers
the wire coils scatter horseflies
lingering like tiny concertina suns

against the freshly painted (again)
wall where ivy and woe, not epitaph
have taken root - has anyone else

taken root as a hedge of evergreen
thorn, branch, leaf, bramble and spike
within, perpetual scorching air guides

most people raise colossal battlements
to keep the enemy abroad - finding peace
I build, improve, expand and fortify
so that the enemy remains within.