Felling Trees

  
  
There was no alternative,
quiet days through trees
disturbed awhile, our walks
for other days, when
the dinosaur diesel has
gorged itself, huge wheels
to trample brambles and birch.
Dense and secret places
now open to the sky and rain,
proud pine for cord and paper,
lying limp their phallic pride
brought low, branches scattered
no more cones to seed the soil.
Sad, I weep their destruction
but in time and who knows when  
primrose will bloom and brambles
share the ground on equal terms
with crab and sloe and elder,
trees which shed their leaves
turning mor to mull;
willow herb and evening primrose.  
Oh! how I dream those days,
lovers calling again,as once I did
sure as tomorrows' promise.
Soon the timber piles will go
to mill and pulp and furnace,
they grew for this and died
we enjoyed their company, but
shall enjoy to watch young trees,
excited birds seeking nests and fruit.
Butterfies exploit open spaces
once dark with pine and rhododendron;
they will need to learn as I,
find a way, forge new paths,
Jack to mark again, search secrets
his  favourite  trunks now gone
saplings  chosen to visit  
every day,faithfully as before.