I hear the throaty growl of the chainsaw
Declaring its presence to the trees,
Threateningly undecided on its next victim.
The throbbing engine,
A calculating rhythmic droning dirge
Catches those timber sentinels of life unawares.
The low growl rises to a chilling whine of power
Before falling on another trunk or limb.
My mind begins to pose questions;
If those trunks were flesh textured,
Their sap like blood,and serrated death
Sliced into warm living tissue;
If those dumb exhalers of air
Could scream in agony or beg for life,
Would we destroy them quite so eagerly?
If a road needs a route or a house a plot
They must be sacrificed on the urban altar.
Man,armed with tarmac and bricks
Continues his quest for Utopia.
So money talks
But trees can't walk
Away.
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