Battlehill Woods in the Evening by Anne L. Forbes

Flowing lines of the high bank, like a surge in the sea
Roots exposed through bare earth and brown leaves;
Silver Birch with umbrella like branches;
Sunlight through the trees on the fields beyond.
The roar of the road.

Sitka Spruce in straight lines, with short spiky branches all the way up;
Untidy, haphazard, disorganized growth;
Graceful ferns, soft moss, and seedlings abound below.
A sad fallen tree with its roots torn up, leaning on others for support.
The caw of a crow.

Tall stately Beech, calm, quiet, clean, good.
Clean underneath, with last year’s brown carpet
Stretching to the light green grass beyond.
Reassuring sounds of chopping wood.
A pigeon cooing.

Younger Sitka stretch up, straight as a dye, in military formation;
Regular and regimented. You want to salute.
Nearby a tree with ripples up its trunk like elderly skin.
Another with varicose veins.
The call of a bird.

One lone tree – dark, black, wicked, cruel,
With one foot stretching out to kick you,
Or stamp you out.
Nearby a tree with an ugly gash, like a war wound;
Flesh torn from its heart; sawdust spreading below like blood.

A pair of trees stretching heavenward, with flowing garments,
Leaning together, whispering secrets.
Their men are straighter, darker, more official;
Their fingers reaching out -
Eager to know what’s going on.

A beautiful old tree, spreading her arms up and around,
Protecting parked cars squatting below;
Her gnarled base firmly spread in the ground.
Grounded, mature, wise, loving; bunions in her feet,
But still strong - happily facing the hills ahead.

Nearby, a towering quarry with vegetation clinging to its sides;
Pines reaching up above; swamp grass and new forest growth below;
Cliffs encircling, protective, secure.
Sounds of birds, cars – and midges.
Time to go home.