Amputated woods/
aren’t those gills gashes of the hills?
The earth and stones, flesh and bones?
The trees limbs and grass boa and shirts?
If not, why the bloodstream from the rills?
And how can they tap and sap, chop and fell
Like butchers, making the landscape a hell?
Hiking my hill I stumble over many a stump
As if in a slaughterhouse amid corpses I lump
Awakened to a nightmare in broad day light
My wood! How I deplore this Man-made blight