Sylva Anathema
From the first flint stroke
These apes called folk
Have ravaged their hearts’ desire;
Our forests awoke
To grief and smoke
At the hour they captured fire.
As the seasons turn
They axe and burn,
And Weald gives way to plough;
So few of us stand,
The wounded land
Lies stripped of root and bough.
I am marked to fell
But warn them well
That what they reap, they’ll rue;
When their bones are dust…
Their axes rust…
We shall cover the earth anew!
First Published in Tales from The Woods
