Growth

Dispersed by the wind
Across the wild moor,
This lowly seed
Will travel some more.

It finds its place
Among the heather,
Sinking down
Waiting for rainy weather.

The roots take hold
A shoot appears,
This tree will grow
For many years.

Seasons will come
Seasons will go,
Inch by inch
Time passes slow.

Years they pass
Bleak and meek,
It grows tough
It can’t be weak.

Now baring fruit
To give what it’s got,
Nobody approaches
They fall and rot.

Man invades
To ‘tame’ this land,
Green to grey
Taking with both hands.

Will it survive
Probably not,
Will we ever realize
beauty we've lost.

Originally published at rhyme.thecloudfactory.co.uk on March 14, 2016.