We began like trees: our wooded heights, our glory
in number and pride. A proper home for lynx or wolf,
for lichen, moss, and moose alike.
Where once our bellies swelled with bloom and root,
the geriatric few of us that still stand tall
are but a "wet desert", pushed north, cornered west
to make way for sheep feed, for timber shipped to England.
Our leaves mute to make way for new life: an empty silhouette.
If you have any comments on this poem, Aiko Harman would like to hear from you.