Like sooty sentinels they stand forlorn,
amongst the charred remains of rye and corn.
The forest fire has raged without remorse,
and cleared the meadow floor of whin and gorse
to leave the grassland desolate and foreign
The painter’s palette now is wrenched and torn,
bright coloured blooms are dead before they’re born,
and blackened trees look on, a watchful force,
like sooty sentinels.
The canopy above is scorched and shorn,
and bluebells now no altars will adorn.
A whirling dervish blaze has run its course,
though no one knows from whence the fire’s source.
The pines still stand aloof, with haughty scorn,
like sooty sentinels
