The seed is borne abroad the wind-swept land
To take root where it will, where it might be found again.
Hold fast, each one. Bind the soil together.
Let the stem be no pole on which to hoist your banner.
Each one, the colours all its own to fly
And standing, not for you, not for me.
Your eye must be keen among the ancient paths
And tolerate discomfort in the way of things unsaid,
The words, unplucked, to cut another’s bloom.
Your passing might then leave no scar and no mark,
But an echo of light, silent, though you walk,
With no need to say, “I was here”; you are there now.
April 2025