When Birnam Wood marched on Dunsinane,

Was it merely a disguise used by men?

Or was it a commentary,

On the way it’s always been?

I’ve noticed a steady creeping,

In the greenery around my place,

And it seems that I’m under siege,

As they advance in steady pace.

Oaks, cedars and maples,

That I’m sure were not there last year,

Reach out for me with grasping limbs,

And haunt my waking fears.

It is a constant battle,

To keep the brush back from my door,

As I arm myself with implements,

And books of herbal lore.

The walnuts stand so stately,

As they form their martial ranks,

Locusts armed with spiky thorns,

Adorn eroded banks.

They speak to me of a battle,

That was begun before I came,

As they march to take back the land,

With perhaps the better claim.

I look over worn out fields,

And think it’s time for truce,

The advancing trees assure me,

They can repair the tenant farmer’s abuse.

In our tacit agreement,

Upon each other’s boundaries,

I still find in my hay fields,

Advance scouts of the trees.

I know I must remove them,

Though I know that ‘tis a shame,

And I hope the watching sentinels,

Are judicious with their blame.

I have a love for growing things,

And they do improve my place,

And I understand that a weed,

Is only a plant that’s out of place.

And I understand that “place”,

Is an arbitrary line,

Which says over there is for the forest,

While this bit of land is mine.

I may keep it and use,

As I think best,

But the trees watch in stalwart silence,

For the day when I shall rest.

The timber is resilient,

And while they may be forestalled,

They know that fewer such as I,

Are upon the land installed.

And I know there will come a day,

When I must bow to defeat,

Leaves will be my blanket,

And roots my winding sheet. 

And the trees will refrain from gloating,

At their victory in the end,

They will cover me and shade me,

And say well met my friend.