Acorns

When we kill a tree Does a forest sigh Rustle with grief that One of them should die. Is there apprehension, Do the trees even hear, The clinking clanking sound As the felling gang draws near. The real flowers of the world, The lungs of the Earth, Helping cleanse the air from the moment of their birth. Their beauty being replaced By a much lesser scene As we uproot the trees To plant Soya bean. Do the trees around the world Hear the grieving crying From swathes of woodland as They sense their colleagues dying. Will there be a memorial service When they've killed the last tree Will they follow into extinction The last wild bee. When the Earth is levelled And sterile and neat Under chamfered layers Of reinforced concrete And the air gets heavy With every breath a chore Each one less satisfying than The one just gone before Will we regret we didn't listen To the almost silent pleas That rustled through the branches Carried by the last gentle breeze. Will a silent protester Surreptitiously sow Handfuls of acorns to watch New Oak saplings grow.