Felled
They searched for fruit
That subconscious memory of flavour
That lingered scent, that succulence,
That soul satisfying savour.
But the tree that bore their bounty
Had long ago been hacked
By the very axe they carried
On their bent and broken backs.
Each day they passed to pluck at fruit
Their axe had made its mark
They did not take it from their backs
To hang upon its bark
And then one day that tree was felled
Their final cut the last
And memory of the saving fruit
Now long ago has passed.
Copyright © Bob Kimmerling | Year Posted 2020
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