Owen Sheers
You tell me you've planted an oak
in the middle of the top field.

When I ask how long before
it'll be fully grown, you nod your head

and say 'some time'
and I realise I should have known.

After all, you planted trees for our arrivals,
one for each of us at the north, south and west of the house,

and now you have planted this ---
a finger-thick sapling drawn by the breeze into a long bow

loaded with the promise of what it will become,
silhouetted against a reddening sky

that could be the setting or the rising of a sun.