The Nameless Russians, From My Garden Poem by Sally Evans

This was the world of the nameless Russians,
who came but never grew
into leaf and flower in this rich country,
forests seen from the fifteenth floor,
glens and glades not even imagined.

The Glasgow tower block gave false hope
of what they might have been,
only a cage in that block, glass bars
and vertical exercise stairs.
There was no escape without wings.

But they had no wings, only forms,
rejections and more forms, paper darts
that drove nowhere, eyes that saw distantly
roads, schools, tiny trials at gardens.
Countries tossed them around, no one cared.

I crept into this space
and grew it, not using my languages,
demanding nothing but to be left in peace,
to my unhurried gardening,
ignored in a gentler way,

I was able to draw up my plans
that cost others so little.
I will plant a tree for them, name
them a rose, if only an agency
sees fit to give them names.