I saw his trunk dismembered
Scattered pieces across the Water Meadow,
Chunks of trunk discarded.
Old man Willow is dead.
During the long Summer balms
I used to seek my children
To find them in his arms,
Singing un-remembered charms.
Striding across meadow deeps
Lines of destructive tracks
Signs of oil and chainsaw creeps
Across black pools as meadow weeps.
The dogs racing rabbits hunted
Weaving amongst his branches,
No more tails excited
Old Man Willow is dead.
To the men who did this
No doubt a job finish
No profit in his branches
No wealth within his trunk.
I remember,
Old Man Willow is Dead.
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