their shadows dark as bilberries.
They have eaten the alders and oaks,
usurped their places. Now they feed
at the waterholes of those they have killed.
We wake to the loss of the willow we grew from a sapling,
the whitebeam planted by my grandmother.
Where they stood, two trees we’ve never seen before
hold out their arms to us but we’re not fooled.
It’s the same shade of dull green everywhere.
The scots pine at the end of the road has disappeared,
so has the line of limes by the supermarket.
To save its life, we dig up the Christmas tree early,
check the locks, pile the cellar with tins.
Ps I do like sycamores! I just remember ages ago, someone telling me that they were taking over a bit so I wrote the poem.