That was the summer in which I died,
And the trouble was… we had time to decide,
I offered you everything, you took it all.

You spoiled a land,
I recoiled from existence,
And though the fig fruited, I bore nothing.

You insisted on expansion… onwards, upwards
Forever exploiting all you find,
If this is progress, simply leave me behind.
Your limitless consumption led to this, piles of spent energy,
Sapped from loins and limbs, trials in territories,
Soaring skies and haunting lies.

Bent and broken, I gave in and it remains unspoken,
You are out of control,
I was trying to reach you, dying to teach you.

You pricked and bit, stung and lit,
You drew blood,
I fell into the fire and then came the flood.

And what did we leave behind?
A mark, a trace, a sign,
Our heavy footprint, scars and tracks.

Stretching out, sketching out, shouting out,
Mark-making, bone-shaking, powdered ash and
ground coal,
Dust, leftovers and remains.

From despair comes hope, from death – life,
The last vestiges, my gift to you is this,
A calm, cool breeze momentarily eases.

A small offering of leaf, a relief from the intensity of
this heat,
Hopeful for what may come – reflection, perfection,
restoration,
Our kin, species reconnecting.

The boar, the bats and birds,
The ants, the roots, the earth,
That was the summer in which I died.

THE BEGINNING 

We, the Tree. 
Rooted, deeply. 
In this calm connectivity, 
You cultivate me,
Domesticate and placate me,
We, the Tree. 

We, the Tree. 
Rest in me, 
Nest in me, you’re home,
Use and abuse me,
With my bending branches and brittle bones,
We, the Tree. 

We, the Tree. 
Twisting time,
With these hysterical lines,
Offering our historical finds
To your so called civilised minds.
We, the Tree. 

We, the Tree. 
Caring and cutting, 
Leaning and plucking, 
Cleaning and pruning, 
You insist on sawing and scarring, 
We, the Tree. 

We, the Tree. 
My body is bound,
Lost and then found. 
You must pardon us,
For we will return to our carbon dust.
We, the Tree. 

We, the Tree. 
Enlighten me,
Burn-ed, learn-ed. 
Still life through ashes,
Feeds the resilient, regenerative me. 
We, the Tree. 

We, the Tree. 
With our gift of gold,
Stories are told, 
In our creases and folds,
We continue these conversations across generations, 
We, the Tree.

We, the Tree.
We witness drought and flood,
Extracting our blood, 
Wise and forgiving,
Kneeling, we feel penitent. 
We, the Tree.

We, the Tree. 
Sweeping and sieving, 
Serving and living,
Bandaged boughs,
Tying and healing our peeling skin,
We, the Tree. 

We, the Tree.
Combing through pages, 
Falling through ages, 
Toiling for oil, lifting soil.
Uprooting, severing what sustains us.
We, the Tree. 

We, the Tree. 
Distress is showing, 
De-stress is glowing, 
We press our wilderness, 
Collecting and protecting what is rightfully ours,
We, the Tree. 

We, the Tree.
Our property,
Prosperity,
We protest peacefully,
For there is no life without death, believe me.
We, the Tree. 

We, the Tree.
With our seasonal needs, 
Desires and fires, 
Sowing our seeds, 
We preserve our selfish fruit.
We, the Tree. 

We, the Tree.
Hollowed out, 
We swallow our trauma, 
Breathing through patiently,
Following our inevitable return to creativity.
We, the Tree. 

We, the Tree. 
Questioning longevity, 
Fruiting futility, 
Of mutability, 
Slowly growing in this territory.
We, the Tree.

THE END.

You offer your mountains, as our cathedral
Your lend your rock, as our altar
In a moment of contemplation
We ask for forgiveness, 
you, for reparation. 
But, what remains?

This is ephemeral, transient
You Transform us 
Into carbon copies
Of ourselves 
To Reflect and protect
What remains 

Our feet are cast, steadfast, 
embracing the darkness,
Stealth like, 
We are troubled, dis-eased
Holding on,
To what remains

The heat intensifies, 
we are hapless, helpless
limp with fatigue
rare water freshens 
cracks in the soil
In this scorched, stretched season
But, what remains?

The fire is still burning,
We feel it from here
Full of fear 
It is time-less,
Almost dream-like
But, what remains?

We bury and extract,
You repel and attract
This whimsical wilderness
With your settling dust
We must harness 
What remains

You are pure in flight,
From east to west, left to right, 
Your wings scatter these words
inscribed and flawed
You soar outside of your ‘self’
But, what remains?

Bones and skin,
Bark and things, 
Feathers and wings,
Our breath and your air 
We fight to repair 
What remains.