The fluted boles of the old men,
Marked, rooted, weaving wind,
Pushing them together,
A huddled meeting of Green Men
With green beards, thick.
And hair of green fire.  
Sunken eyes stare out from
Hidden haunt, as the others,
Lost in ancient thought,
Say `Forget! The years will pass, before we do'
As though the promise made
At the making of all fair things,
Was nothing but sweetened sap.
This family, small, vulnerable,
Through the passing of kings,
And Cities once great,
Peoples plagued, and burnt,
But still standing, these green men,
The promise made hanging by a thread,
As Man would see this woodland dead,
Buried beneath concrete nightmares,
Children within, looking without,
Through sheets of glass, at the slaughter;
Stumps uprooted, wood bladed,
Chopped and chipped into,
Dinner tables, to be servants,
For the masters of cold stone.
The promise broken, the stolen home,
No more leaves do the great winds blow.

Comment (0)

Send to friend

Print

Add to Facebook