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"ground on the docket"

I have stood before their banners

and after them— felt the thud of hooves,

the hiss of tyres, the shiver of steel crossing my back.

Borders are scratches, ink fades—

but my ribs of stone keep their shape.

I taste the rains from both directions,

wear the dust of each season’s quarrel,

and still I push up olive shoots

where the light breaks through.

Their tongues call me by many names;

                           I answer to none.

I keep the bones and seeds together,

        refuse the quarrel’s ending,

hold the weight of time in both hands,

         and do not spill.

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