The Age Of Love Poem by Peter Black

Roots dug deep when the ground was clean
When the northern winds brought fresh rain,
And time moved without measuring;
Limbs bore leaves that swallowed old light,
Sprouted green and at the end of stems
Grew flowers bright as diadems;
Reached into the sky's upper heights,
Where blues and greens made clouds more white.
But when the age of love was cut,
Life like dried wood was rubbed to dust.
The ancient trees that had no names
Were felled and stripped and cut down dead,
Plants were trampled, grasses were razed;
Thickets and bushes were chopped clear.
The green was gone and in its place
Were creatures, frail, of violent face,
That beat their breasts, and screamed in fear,
Towards all things felt, heard, or seen.
And when the last of the trees stood
Alone, thin on an empty world,
The creatures clawed upon its bark,
Dug at its flesh, pulled at its roots;
For all their force it would not move.
The earth dried up and in raped holes,
Those creatures planted trees of stone,
Homes of metal, glades of concrete.
Still the ancient tree could be seen,
Shaking off morning tears of dew;
Through the night its arms and limbs creaked
A lamenting song for her world.
At last, the creatures took their blades
And cut through her sap bleeding legs.
With a gasp and the winds that broke,
Around her girth as she was brought down,
There was a clash; absence of sound.
Writhing on top of broken stones,
Was a girl; she felt all alone.