from Google Images
The walking trail through Wyndham Park, with oaks
and willows, maples, sycamores and gums:
a splashy autumn show for city folks
in step with robin songs, cicada hums.
One day, sweet woodsmoke in the air, they came:
a droning, giant buzz, like screaming knives
with swishing crashes following. The lame
excuse: obliterate what threatens lives.
They cut two hundred-plus: the young, the old,
the stately, vivid trees. Mimosas spared,
their listless beanpods left to hang like cold
and desiccated tears; but trailside’s bared.
The robins, mockingbirds have taken wing
but I am safe amidst this awful thing.