The Fate of the Wood

They are ripping down the cherry trees,
With teeth of steel and iron,
Before dusk, when the moon’s still up,
Beneath Draco and Orion.

The grunts of sweat and blood and men,
Are deafening in the night,
Shadows painted on the soil,
From their glowing torch of light.

The fruits were picked off long ago,
It was winter when they came,
Soldiers clad with helmet and axe,
And titles instead of names.

Amongst the throng there are no cheers,
When the first bough hits the ground,
A thud, then a scatter of leaves,
A resolute and aching sound.