TREES
By Erika Bluth
Those city dwellers, mobile talkers,
Who travel daily as commuters,
as paper readers, platform walkers
and friends of personal computers -
they never saw old Sycamore
dispensing with his two-
which travelled, as in days of yore,
borne by the wind, bound to take root.
Come Spring and Summer, green prevailed
along the rails, beside the sleepers;
but our city folk quite failed
to see a tree among the creepers,
that tiny sapling Sycamore
'mongst buttercup and willowherb.
All looked as pleasing as before
beside the rails, beside the curb.
Then Winter raced into the field.
All withered, looking dead and shrunk.
Young Sycamore, though, would not yield,
showed off his little slender trunk.
But city dwellers, mobile talkers
still did not notice what they saw;
no paper readers, platform walkers
did recognise young Sycamore.
Next Spring so green the banks did rise
with lovely plants, yet little known.
By Summer then -
A wood of Sycamores had grown.
Their roots now stretched beneath
the sleepers and lifted up the rails a bit
By fall they had outgrown the creepers
The sleepers rose. No trains! Oh s**t!
The city dwellers were quite furious
to be betrayed by trees, by friends,
Had they but been a little curious
and used their brains to better ends!