I often watch trees, because I actually like them

I may love them really, but regardless

I find them fascinating:

Standing upright like power poles

or bent over like blades of grass in wind

 

Their woody arms shoot every which way, sending out

long, thin fingers reaching upwards to the sky

and the moon; a moon that during the day hides behind a veil

of woolly white or black and grey

 

I can imagine the moon bearing a benevolent smile

as those tree-soldiers hold up their arms in a

rustling battle cry,

brandishing twigs as weapons

while the moon softly encourages the

woop! woop! of the trees and the clashing of twigs

because the moon loves company

and the trees are the closest thing she ever comes

to having friend or kin

 

If the day is quiet enough, or at night,

you can hear the trees sigh among themselves,

yawning like tired law-men on a boring stakeout

Sometimes they trade words and banter,

discussing how the water underground

is drying up,

how things are not how they used to be,

how their roots don't feel as solid

as they once did

or how their own family tree has weakened over the years

to the point where those still standing may fall

to be reduced to piles of dry, brittle bark

with curly, orangey-brown fingers 

still attached to now useless weapons

being crunched underfoot

by ignorant people; people who

caused them to fall in the first place

 

We should ALWAYS honour trees