Seedlings sprung from the fields
These pines were summoned
By his defiant hand.
Held by the arid winds
Beside these stones well set
To make a wall against the west.

Darker thank he dial at dawn
They sadden the dim hot noons
As though there were
Or might have been
A rare tranquility and fallen rain.

I look away to speak of vervain
It blooms as it did a year before.
A pungent silence
Gray clouded leaves
Shadowed in spice and forgetfulness.

Old stones quivering in a new season
Shudder with the tides beneath
And a moon full of storms.
If these are tears
Say I am mourning a lost province.