fell the rains with mighty blows,
with ease sourced sap will bleed,
rivulets, their journey south,
unheeded for misdeed
of giving life and living well,
canopied to sky,
roots put down that furnish home,
nourishment from sighs,
breaths of air from tingled tips,
camouflaged as leaves,
sentinels that serve us well,
powerhouse of trees,
minions merely to our needs,
as silent voice gives breath,
blow by blow, by fatal blow,
might falls, might fells, our death
Love the detail in this which brings the scene alive. The cycle of life continues, but I like the way you lean towards our responsibility to guard Nature. A fine poem, Anne-Marie.
LikeLike
I live in an area where the mighty forests fall, beautiful old trees hundreds of years old. The loggers replant, but it isn’t the same.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I know what you mean. I see saplings and think of them as children, hoping they make it. But when I see really old trees I think of the awakened forest in Lord Of The Rings. Strength, experience, slow but sure and the weight of years to carry us. Like favourite grandparents, knowledgeable to our inexperience, steadfast and how they must shake their heads at us sometimes.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Oh, beautifully said. There is nothing quite like a giant tree. When I was a child, I imagined the trees were my parents.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Daddy Oak and Mummy Elm, we the weeping willows should we fail them. I was rubbish at climbing trees, right enough, more of a rock scrambler. 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Just stunning in your description and respect for these mighty trees. Lovely.
LikeLike
Thanks, Susan. It’s scary to think of the loss all round should the trend not be reversed.
LikeLike
Scary and quite sad.
LikeLiked by 1 person