In the cold still dark
They crept out with saws, knives and axes
To cut down the sacred sycamore.
Even owls were silent,
And foxes ran their errands among the furrowed rocks
With the instinct of the hunted smelling fear.
The harvest moon sheltered in a gauze sleeve of cloud,
Intensifying the darkness and the stillncss.
The blades began to bite while the vandals quietly laughed.
Soon they were gone, speeding down cold tarmac on hot wheels.
The headlights of oncoming cars and lorries
Blanking out the hills, the fields: the stars.
In the morning when the hikers found the sacred tree was down
It seemed that even the Roman stones were desolate with mourning.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter,
30th. September 2023.
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