Sometimes,when I am out for the evening
And the talk is going well,
I stretch under the oak tree of hospitality
Lulled by a noonday of warmth.
Indolent, I watch the conversation builders
Climbing on gossamer threads,
Spinning their tenuous lines.
I doze to the steady chirping from the grass
And the rarer songster from the hedge.
With my head against the trunk
And my eyes in the blue
I am almost not there,
So absolute and silent is my mood.

And then some insistent chatterer says GLOBAL WARMTH.

My oak has turned hollow.
Contracted to a wind hole at my ear
A cold draught squints away the summer.
I turn my eye to look.
Within that blackened trunk
The charred waste falls metallic black
Down to a dread horizon of bleak plough.
Dragging the landscape after it in pain
The east wind streams, bitingly at war
With the plucked scrub and lacerated furrow.
This side of the tree the peace has gone.
The emerald branches sense their own unrest,
The azure dims
And there are no more harmonies to follow.