Trees of Knowledge

The trees fall -

slow, resigned,

their crowns sighing.

Most of them are small, all are sycamore -

this interloper, that spreads too fast and

ousts our native oak, while ash is dying.

Through ear-protectors, above the chainsaws'

relentless roar and screaming timber,

geese cry in flight from fields and marsh to greet

the rising water.

Last night, there were storms -

the shocked sky alight, lashed with flashing sheets

before the crash of shattered air. The sight,

the sound were all eclipsing. The earth was braced

for torrents.

This is how heaven weeps.

Wind-stripped and dripping: five years, ten, they'd stood -

three heartbeats to fall in the nocent wood.