Frost on the Pines (Poetry)

A notice flutters from its rustic post —
ripped by passing vandals accessing
the muddy path — its beer-can littered length
while warning words face down, the print unread
unheeded, hanging by one stapled thread.

The stand of trees behind sways, ignorant —
tall, mature — too far above to know
that shred might be a warrant for their death —
a recycled ancestor press-ganged into use
its paper slavery unending — pulp a curse.

The lofty pines are sleeping, dripping frost —
lulled by winds, pillowed on grey skies —
their squirrels run, birds peck among crisp leaves
the shadow of the axe across their lives.

Unconscious, unaware — all plan for Spring —
the sap anticipates its day to rise —
cold buds are waiting, curled, the pigeon’s folded wing
already knows the dance. And paired magpies
huddle quiet in crooks — roost close to trunks —
this small oasis wild between red bricks
of houses where the tarmac rivers freeze —
survivors, every one on borrowed time.

For the plans are drawn — the maps have long been spread
on wooden desks the other side of town —
and someone signed a paper — scrawled a name —
and so our trees will topple and come down.