Tree - Tina Morris
They did not tell us What it would be like Without trees. Nobody imagined That the whispering of leaves Would grow silent Or the vibrant jade of spring Pale to grey death. And now we pile Rubbish on rubbish In the dusty landscape Struggling to create A tree. But though the shape is right And the nailed branches Lean upon the wind And plastic leaves Lend colour to the twigs. We wait in vain For the slow unfurling of buds. And no amount of loving Can stir our weary tree To singing.