Through the fast-forward frames
That gentle-rock and carry me homewards
I see familiar – but not – evening shadows
Lying timelessly across harvest-clock fields;
Full leaf crowns of trees that served as masts,
Fuel, trusses, wheel spokes and spear shafts
Lean now on thick, dark hedges
Like off-duty, slightly drunk warders
At the sleepy near-home edges of my day.
For the moment –
Though you and I
Are both the poorer for it –
You are the power
(And don’t we all know it!);
You who shout from the screens,
You who worship the silver.
But we the patient peoples,
Of the Tribes of Trees, know
That this moon will change,
That these tides will turn.
So we pull in another breath,
Turn up our collars