More ancient trees collapse today.
They're clearing acres, making way
for yet another lot of shops
where someone like me never stops.

I watch the elder evergreen
get pushed aside, urged from the scene,
much like an actress from the stage
where she's no longer deemed the rage

now other props and plays appear.
Here, lines get cut, too.  All's austere
beneath the spotlight of the moon
which will be waning very soon.

Then other shadows fall as fast,
since none of this was meant to last
in such an age where we discard
the very things we ought to guard.

Across the road, another sign
declares more fine land's up for sale,
a field full of fern and pine.
I bow my head as cold winds wail.