Friday, December 12, 2014

The Groaning Forest

The forest groans
mature pine
corpses in strange soil
friendless
waiting to be cut.

Tracks rip and gash
creeks turn brown
soil weeps along runnels
trickles
dew drops crying.

Insects blur
sunlight filters leaves
pine cones litter
leaf rubble
plantation cemetery.

Tourist roads lined with
tree ferns a
dismal façade,
we camp by the creek
logging trucks slice the night.

The pine forest rustles
hate and pain
there are no flowers
no birds
only loss.

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