TIMBER

Man-made forests,

firs cramped together,

maximum yield

they shall require.

Docile we stand,

shoulder to shoulder,

silent our sunless floor

But our soughing, the sighing

of far oceans crying

on lost shingle shores;

phantom pine scents dying

where lovers are lying

through still summer hours ...

they can't take that away.

Talitha Clare, 'Moonstone'.