Tree by Tina Morris

Tree

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

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.

                              -Tina Morris