See the mighty oak, now fallen,
Verdant leaves now yellow dead;
Grey, the bark so brown and healthy,
Gone the roots no longer fed.

Lying helpless on its deathbed,
Bare the branches grown in vain,
No more sap to feed the insects,
Lying, helpless, in the rain.

Battered by the weather's fury,
Limbs go soggy, grey twigs fall,
Oak cries out for mercy, mercy,
No-one listens to its call.

Memories of little children,
Dancing round it in the meadow,
Climbing on its stout, strong branches,
Playing in its cool, dark shadow.

Foster-parent to the magpies,
All the birds that came and went!
Now the nests are blown asunder,
Now the treetop home is spent.

Might oak, now good for nothing,
Stripped of all its green attire,
Arms cut in so many places,
Good for nothing? Good for fire!

Proud it stood for all its lifetime,
Never thought it would be slain,
Man the friend? No! Man the traitor!
Mighty oak lies in the rain.

The elements could not defeat it,
Proudly suffered years of pain,
Standing tall against the weather,
Hardships taken all in vain.

Timber tall, grown from an acorn,
How it loved those happy years,
How can humans be so heartless?
Raindrops drip from oak like tears.           

The mighty oak, a death-grey hue:
"Forgive them, they know not what they do!"
Lying, crying, on its side,
Children said that's what it cried,
Oak then shuddered, deep inside,
No-one spoke, no-one replied,
Children closed their eyes and sighed,
Praying "Oak, with us abide,"
Mighty oak lay down and died.

More of my Environment Poems HERE