Trees For Erosion

I moved onto the farm when I was eleven, To the farm eroded of trees. I’d stand on the hill in the middle of summer, Unshaded in a blistering breeze. Then the winter shook hands and my work it began, Iron barrow, saplings, and a spade. I planted, I nurtured, hundreds of trees, Before I realised I’d been betrayed. It took a plague of rabbits a week to destroy, Every tree in my little plantation. So I replanted each tree, surrounded with plastic, In a war of land occupation. Then the sheep we had, broke through a fence, And devoured every little one. Damn, new strategy, wire mesh for each, The regrowth had, now, just begun. Then a drought, “you’re kidding” every tree turned to dust, Every tree I’d planted with care. The drought broke when I was fifteen, so I replanted the hill, Replanted on a wing and a prayer. Now, thirty years since, you can’t see the hill anymore, It’s blanketed by leaves on the trees. You can now stand on the hill in the middle of summer, Shaded with a cool, calm, comfortable breeze.