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
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