Tree: Tina Morris

They did not tell us
What it would be like
Without trees.

Nobody imagined
That the whispering of leaves
Would grow silent
Or the vibrant jade of spring
Pale to grey death.
 
And now we pile
Rubbish on rubbish
In the dusty landscape
Struggling to create
A tree.
 
But though the shape is right
And the nailed branches
Lean upon the wind
And plastic leaves
Lend colour to the twigs.
 
We wait in vain
For the slow unfurling of buds.
And no amount of loving
Can stir our weary tree
To singing.


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