Copse corpse 

​Ripped from its roots and soil bed,

Lifeless, its once vibrant needles now dead.
After twenty slow years growing in the ground,
The Norwegian spruce corpse is sold for forty pound.
Manhandled and lugged over one shoulder,
Its once rich green pine begins to falter.

Impaled on a cold metal stand, it’s placed by the fire,
The fireplace that will in January become its pyre.
Spread apart, its rich leaves flay
It begins to shrivel as it starts to decay.
Defiled in death, its limbs are left to drop,
As its decorated with a heavy gold star on top.

It is forced to bow its boughs under the weight,
As baubles and ornaments help it dissipate.
Stringed up, the marvel soon fades
As come January, its owner returns wielding blades.
The corpse of the once mighty tree is not returned to earth,
But now takes pride of place inside a hearth.

Those decades of growth go up in flames,
As greedy humans take their claims.
A tree is not just for Christmas, a festive fad,
It’s a living thing that makes our air less bad.
Don’t wipe out nature for just one day,
Buy fake – no-one will know anyway.


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