Wood Song

I remember the world in spring –

those few weeks when the blooming trees

let go their pollen for the breeze

with unexpected force to swing

sky-high, multitudes milling round

at different speeds of draught and drift

so many metres from the ground –

a festival, a stunning airlift.

Maple, walnut, beech,

alder, plane and ash.

They say the world will end (again).

A few weeks till the dead of winter

when we’ll be iced or burned to cinder.

What do I know? Women and men

tell kids it’s certain that the trees

will change to green again in spring.

Outside the roots and branches freeze

while the burning logs whistle and sing –

maple, walnut, beech

and all the rest now ash.