The shifting vines

Stood deep in the woodland Grove,

we, the spirits of the Oak,

hailed on words, from Druids spoken.

Firm in hope,

with branches open.

Survival held us all in grasp,

when nights were wrought with wind and rain,

and up we rose to take the task

of easing them their pain.

We were the strength and spirit

that kept walls from falling down.

They built tools that raised their limits

and gained them such renown.

We spirits lived as one.

Fires lit the festivals in honour to their Gods,

with hopes the season’s blessings would come.

But soon enough,

new faces came

with new worship in the Grove.

Stranger’s names, they did proclaim,

instating us, with great acclaim.

New communities and cultures,

though some care for us remained

For, we marked the boundary of where Parish priests would pray.

Soon, our forests started falling

to the needs that came a-calling.

A rapid rise in land and price

saw new cultures mix and spawn,

and new things to wish upon.

Pulping us to paper,

new theories came to dawn,

spreading through these lands

and far beyond.

We supported them, in mass,

as they used us for the carriages

that aided on their paths,

along roads that they had carved out of the grass.

Our oldest became relics of a time that came and went,

while more were kept as babes,

without relent.

So many became cleared for the conifers to stand,

the wild spirit wrested from the land.

Time marched on

again.

Great Wars saw new passions caw

in the pits of prideful men.

No more tribes,

too civilised,

to worship branch and tree.

And I watched as spiritual families

collapsed.

If only they could hear our cries

above roars that spread the countryside,

that we were choking on the smoke,

raging rapidly to rise,

and blocking out the skies

as the world was spinning,

fast.

Choking on the darkness,

our spirit could not last.

Yet still,

the promise keeps.

A promise that was made before tongue had word to speak.

Together we must breathe,

we will not stand as thralls.

And we will keep them standing,

until the final of us falls.

By Dylan E. Matthews - Poet and performer