The juniper bush
Silent he stands by the stone,
at one with the heather.
Amongst his prickly needles
sit swarms of berries
like caught charges of shot.
He is proof against anything.
He habitually brushes the north wind.
His twigs are tough as sinews.
He withstands what is most barren,
and yet is scented, yet possesses grace.
To graves and floors he gave sprays,
and he brewed a good beer
where he stood, strong and amiable,
squeezed between grey stones in Thule.