The Trees

The trees are crying their leaves,

a gift of mourning to the ground

that covers up our dead and eases the pain

if only for a little while,

bare branches outstretched

in search of comfort and compassion

mirrored in the openness of bleeding hearts.

The trees, the trees, they cry with us

for they too have known great sorrow –

if only we had seen the likeness before it was too late

and ‘sorrys’ were swallowed by the rattle of a gun,

not so different after all

from the dull thud of a cold axe swing

cutting down comrades from across the sea.