The Weeping of the Hawk


Down in the shade of the whispering wood
The stillness of the day is shattered
The call of the thrush echoes its dismay
A forest of life is giving way to the spoils of man
Man’s machines drown out the hum of the wind
The goliaths of wood crumple helplessly to the ground
Casting from their boughs nests of eggs
Future generations are now left to boil in the sun
The stream no longer mirrors the towering oak
The oak is gone, cut down to a stump of non-existence
The squirrel weeps, never again to feast
Its bountiful harvest of acorns is gone and lost forever
The carpet of undergrowth on the forest floor
Is being torn from its roots by a blade
A blade of man’s making, a blade of man’s destruction
Man calls this progress, I call it a mockery
I protest my vehemence but man does not listen
He looks up but does not understand
Man does not understand the language of the hawk
I fly away to weep, I need a new home
 
By James Betts