This is the oak tree that should not be here.
It stretched its blind shoot from the ungrazed fell last year.
In the spring of no lambs, it fixed its grip on Bradley’s,

Snaking pale roots through the soil, a volunteer
To fortune on the bare hill. When it grows tall
And crazed with age, the hiker on the Wall

Above the farm will pass, oblivious
As now to what it means – this doubtful peace,
This border drawn between two warring countries.