A handful of oak saplings are mine to plant,
squatting where other feet already wait.
Many hands on the well-worn spade
dig down, hammer in the stake,
nurture the spriggy guardian
In the rabbit wire’s mirror
I see a familiar face.
Counting down the trees
I do not know
which will be mine,
tomorrow or in fifty years,
when each caretaker will come to sleep
in the shelter of broad oak shadows.