How I would have mourned these trees,
Young, thin-skinned, as though each twig
Were my own flesh, gale from breeze.
Grey, I saw they leaned too close,
Beeches'silver died to black.
Breathe, survivors, fill sky's space.
Long trunks lie, upon their leaf.
Veined wood startles, red and warm,
Solid chairs to huddle grief.
Squirrels which I would have found
Flying, black against the clouds,
Race them, two feet off the ground.
If you've any comment on this poem, Alison Brackenbury would be pleased to hear from you.