The storm approaches
And a horse on a chain
Tries to run free
Yet all she can do
Is circle

Tired graffiti
And coils of barbed wire
Blur in the impatient air

A ******* a bench sits cross legged
And flocks circle the fields
Without knowing that she is waiting

Sparks will fly
As bearded men
Return to their dwellings
And youths **** on beer bottles

She is an oak
Without knowing
Strong without realising
Many branches growing

She holds firm
To the earth
And rings
Gather around her

I am the watcher
Of such things
As they pass before
My window