Ghost trees in a gleaming haze, Hold lambent forms of longing light, A vision forms, fading and bending, Under the weight of their haunting situation.

The sky, blue as a child’s crayon, Reveals dreams that twist into shapes, Yet outside—silence, where the works lie bare, With layers of history, growing old, forgotten.

Yet still the earth desires the touch, Of roots entwined, like hands in prayer, As though waiting, poignantly, for that eternal pull, That sees beneath the haze; a world beyond despair.

• Stephen Spender