Alone I stand in the trough of a hill,
Limbs all battered, green fingers they'e ill
Deep marks on my body from battles of old
I long to give shelter to those, from the cold

My brothers have fallen, lost to an age
Men with sharp axes to gather a wage
Shaped into buildings and even the wheel
A land lost now lost to concrete and steel

The green places have gone, all lost to time,
No children come by my boughs to climb
They lost themselves to crime and war
And scarred the land, rendered and tore

And I stand the last type of my kind
Dreaming of nature deep in my mind
So I wait, in the eye of storm,
So alone, lost, looking forlorn.
Awaiting the creatures, large or small
Hopefully hearing nature's last call.