Stealing my Fantasy

Stories are told as I sit under this great big tree,

sunlight glistens through the leaves,

whist the birds sing their morning melodies.

I listen, feeling free,

My tree is here, and I am comforted.

Trucks filled with men strut through the land,

I was nervous to see them in front of my tree,

With this I disagree.

Within seconds my tree is out of my hands.

My tree has been taken, by men in trucks.

All I see are lonely tree stumps.

The birds have stopped, possums have left,

It’s a graveyard that’s depressed

With leaf and foliage left in clumps.

My tree has disappeared, in the blink of an eye.

Thirty years later, it’s empty land

With brown on the ground.

There’s nothing around.

I still wait for my tree, trying to understand

Why my tree is gone, and why I am in despair.