Swathes of Sitka Spruce

Sterile, devoid of life, except for

The cloven hoof of passing deer.

Sentinel led, deep green fronded

Constrained with no space for light.

Multiple eruptions on the far reaching

Landscape of wild Scotland; invaders

In the native home of the Scots Pine

Where Red Squirrels and Crossbills

Habituate endemic in ecological balance.

A balance we are endeavouring to restore

When once the only the choice we had

Was to plant swathes of Sitka Spruce.

Regimented; standing to attention, like

Battalions of men who fought for justice,

In foreign fields; the needs of which to serve,

And restock; stripped the land of the North

Into a mass representation of no-man's land.

Tree stumps and severed limbs. Nerves; as

Brittle as snapping twigs. Trampled Flora,

As the trenches filled with slime and mud.

Now (as agriculture reclaims the battlefields)

In their broadleaf woodland; bending with the

driven wind; young saplings, thrive alongside

Toughening bark of their slow maturing cousins.

And whist Wildcats skulk and hunt in the shadows

Our young men are still being felled in Foreign Fields.