I heard pipes and drums, of men crossing fields

treading on the mist of a morning when I was sapling. 

The battle took place around my soil,

where my lifespan started, men dripped blood on me.

Their hot varnish splattered scarlet onto my young leaves.

 

The times, they buried men and women, drummers and fifers fell,

Children left their earthly life before they could breathe regret for it.

Amorous lovers kissed under my powerful trunk in hope for future times.

 

I grew and swelled, looking at my sky blue and wet, of heat and cold

mingling in a communion of circular harmony above and below me. 

I loved and celebrated the community that lived around and amongst me.

 

We skipped to the chaos of scrabbling squirrels, to those naughty robins,

pilfering erratically, to the ants scurrying purposely, in patterns of movement.

In me was Eden, protected and valuable in a constant dialogue naturally. 

 

And then, I remembered the crash of industry and the grinning smell

of oil and steams burning the sky with mouthfuls bellowing smoke. 

My companions felt unwell, as metal boxes sped past us all. 

We bore the poison and noise.  My Eden of friends hid inside me.

The stink of molten tar pressed close to our nature and suffocated.

 

And now I am asunder, defeated and broken.  My fibres are torn,

My roots bleed and scream lament.  All around is confusion and fruitlessness.

I am mourned by the flying ones, ants, squirrels, they are poor children, confused.

 

We will never again rustle leaf, play on my branches, look on the panoramic

beauty above the canopy of living carpet. 

The coming train line has killed me as I slowly return to dust.