In The Spirit Of The Khaki Tree Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Nobody asked the crow, the bee, the clover
For permission to bulldoze the meadow

Despite hourly bulletins from the flowers
Of pollen deprivation, nobody heeded the warnings

When birds spontaneously died after the oil slick hit
Nobody raised their case for compensation
On behalf of desolate hatchlings, orphaned and unfed

Now our wild life lives in little oases
A corner of scrubland here, a strip of railway there

Memorial plaques, they say, are in the pipeline
Once this patch housed sparrows now deceased

City planners have eaten all the rule books
Stuffed their projects with woodlands, gluttonously

How many nests do you see on the wires of no-man's-land?
Soon, watching a squirrel may be an event, like a visit from the Pope

Leaves may become museum pieces, auctioned as rarities
Prized by collectors.

But of course we shall always have plastic imitations,
In the virtual reality landscapes of tomorrow