falling trees

Where the breath of the wind  

Weaves through the vines,  

A whistle between the tender trunks is heard. 

The aroma of petrichor permeates the draft;  

The chimes of streams kindly map themselves.  

Contained by lush canopies – the forest’s lid –  

Her beauty whispers, lures and exudes from within.  

Felled trees echo amongst the loud silence;  

The engines roar against adjacent debris.  

Your streams now dust, your trees now stools. 

Predators have devolved into our prey. 

Your foliage now ash, your soil now grit. 

You, a shadow, have lost your forest title. 

Your greenage now a decaying corpse, your body a wasteland.  

As you fade and an aeon sweeps, a fresh breath passes;  

Its breeze wafts your sorrows away;  

Its soft sprouts soaring forth;  

And where the breath of the wind  

Weaves through the vines,  

The whistle between the trunks is heard once again.