The constant whacking of forged steel against wood
Chipping and chipping out, creating a gouge
Every stroke severs a nerve that has stemmed for years
Until the final blow that fells, this tree

A single trunk with barely a limb to reach
Out beyond its heart, wound to its centre
The circles of life with many spaces
Alone in a forest, surrounded by ghostly faces

Count the rings to see what it took
To grow in thirst by a dried up brook
Parasite trails that leave a scar
Remove the bark, to expose the heart

A beating timber, soft enough to carve
Whittling away, how it starved
For the affection that stems from roots
Now buried with a nameless stump

The axman cut this tree, to clear a path
He gave it to a sculptor who happened to pass
A vision appeared to his poetic eyes
A vessel, it could be, reaching for the sky’s

The man and his ax, went on their way
More trees where taken down that day
If not for an artist to dream
That tree would have burned to crackling screams

Ax