Tropical Birches Poem by Sally Evans

Teaks of the hot forests, ‭
‬whose strong limbs carry
the hammock of the jungle, ‭
‬roots dabble in seasonal rain, ‭
‬sap ascends round hardwood centres
to huge deciduous leaves, ‭
‬whose lofty crowns hold up the sky, ‭
‬these are tropical birches.‭

‬These great trees flourished.‭
‬Men lived under them in houses raised on stilts, ‭
‬the hardwood straightened by pruning and quick growth, ‭
‬the trees capable of living a hundred years.

War caused urgency of communications, ‭
‬bringing the failure of the nations to this remote place, ‭
‬where thousands of prisoners slaved to raise a bridge, ‭
‬tens of thousands of natives coerced with them.‭
‬They pulled teak logs with the strength of elephants, ‭
‬each human weak with malnourishment, ‭
‬they cut and constructed the teak track over
bamboo scaffolds multitudinous as the men
in hot unremitting turmoil, ‭ ‬and each day
a pint of boiled rice and boiled water, ‭
‬daily more of them dying like insects, ‭
‬so many prisoners, ‭ ‬so many Scots, ‭
‬but many times more of the peoples of the area, ‭
‬cared for less than the elephants and the dogs
while birds flew screaming from the felled trees.‭

‬Unbelievable the mayhem, ‭
‬unbelievable the madness and the sanity, ‭
‬endless unless with death until the bridge was built, ‭
‬the train moved, ‭ ‬the trees were gone and the war ended.‭
‬The teak forests were devastated in Burma.‭
‬Few crept away to tell the tale, ‭
‬if not wounded in body, ‭ ‬scarred
and unable to relate or reintegrate, ‭
‬some with families who lived among the birches
in villages, ‭ ‬some in the Highlands of Scotland, ‭
‬but some took up pencils and wrote
as a hope for healing.
One wrote a book.