The orchard was still dying,
The day that I arrived;
Diseased fruit clung onto branches
Only the poison earth survived.
Withered, fallen crumbling leaves
Crunched beneath my boots,
Disturbing with their echos,
The dead decaying roots.
No songbirds notes against the wind,
Just the sound of timbers dying –
A Black Mass in this Apocalypse,
Wailing, pleading crying !
I leaned my gun against a rock,
Sat down to rest and stare;
This place had been so beautiful,
The last time I was here.
There are those who claim, this plague must come,
In the name of Holy War,
Surly no God would live here now;
Even Satan would abhor.
Just then one great tree tumbled,
A benediction – final hymne,
I said my own secret prayers,
And the trees answered: Amen.