The branching grammar of the wooden people,
swinging time lapsed
walking sudden,
never smiling from the rising drowning earth
The wet sliver of a leaf top,
glances countless from the bushes
dry tight clusters in the trees
remain aloof, parched.
Sucking winter from the soil
Its the trees that walk the earth
and mock the people crowded round them,
in the shadow of the summer
they’re the silent creeping killers
never moving, always singing,
to the rats that creep amongst them
In the winter they’re the fingers,
putting pennies on the eyelids
of the children six feet under,
public parks and drifting mourners catch
the stench of meat on leaves, on trees,
and wonder why