I miss the Willow though I know why
the ecologists did make her die.
Not a native, she choked our streams;
so though the tree of the poets dreams
all thought of her removed from sight
in the war for nature – a constant fight.
But still I miss her gentle grace;
her weeping strands an interface
‘twixt earth and air and sky above;
somehow she spoke of gentle love.
To lay beneath her weeping strands
could take the heart to distant lands,
where Faeries danced in forests grand;
’tis there beneath the Weeping Willow
many dreamer found their pillow.
Where lovers lay, hearts intertwined
and inspiration all could find;
while children wove their crowns of glory
The Wee Folk whispered Gaia’s story.
But gone from here the weeping bough
struck by the chainsaws deathly howl.