Mourning in the Morning

O people if only you could remember you would have mercy on the trees. More Casurinas are gone from the Yamacraw coastline, the last remaining plots of bushland in my neighbourhood are coming down. I look out the writing room window, through the branches of our little forest and can see that not one single tree is standing in the yards of the three homes across the street. I also see the yellow Bouganvillea at the front wall, the one you kept taking your hatchets to. At this moment I can hear the sound of an electric saw. The last shade tree on the southern side of the cul de sac is coming down, and I know it is by a woman's hand. O Earthling people, why you rape your mother so?