the withered trees
tell me
what the green
cleared pastures won’t
the jagged teeth
the ghosted stumps
of one-time forest
what’s left
is blue
on distant
rising
slopes
a taste of mesmer dust
hovering
until you
until I
walk inside its spell
and take a deep breath
of forest
a little township
prides itself
still
a frontier
timber town
but
lying on their sides
in stacks
the proof
described as
lumber
and the rotten teeth
once left behind
still stand
ragged
beyond any last lingering
of mystery
© Frank Prem, 2017
December 2017 Poem #29 tba
Frank Prem Poetry 
Oh. This is a sad note. But you have drawn it in my mind very clearly.
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HI Anne. Yes, I often wonder at the complete absence of regard there has been for what was regarded as either resource or impediment.
In my own area we have nice enough forest areas that it’s a pleasure ot visit, but all was completely denuded in the hunt for gold, back in the day. Pictures of the time are quite shocking.
End days.
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This has me thinking of Paul Nash
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Have to look him up Derrick, but thank you. It’s nice to have a poem compared to art work.
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