The trees are crying their leaves,
a gift of mourning to the ground
that covers up our dead and eases the pain
if only for a little while,
bare branches outstretched
in search of comfort and compassion
mirrored in the openness of bleeding hearts.
The trees, the trees, they cry with us
for they too have known great sorrow –
if only we had seen the likeness before it was too late
and ‘sorrys’ were swallowed by the rattle of a gun,
not so different after all
from the dull thud of a cold axe swing
cutting down comrades from across the sea.