Few birds sing

 They have destroyed my wood
no more can I sing praise
to the gothic dome but
lament and weep
tripping random limbs
roots  search no  more  fertile clay.
The sedge is  withered,
few birds sing as once .
Another tree today  on its back
roots to the sky submissive,
tired lion of the forest, craven,
writhing on the ground,
leaves to wither with the sedge
limbs for stoves and pallets
no more  shade or shelter
beneath those gothic naves.
Beyond my time another wood may rise
young birch and mountain ash  pioneer
another wood wild flowers in succession
again to flower in spring bees buzz again
As butterflies dust the air and nettle sting again,
hawk moths in the night dancing in the moonlight chill.