March

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The tree stands, alone

Naked in the dark

The courtyard is silent now

Lies of past glory whisper through the branches

- which are breaking -

All things splinter when divided

Nothing left but a strip of red, white and blue, clinging to its crumbling roots,

thirsty for high seas and hungry for soiled plains

Hollow, 

its only company a fragile fort built on false promises

Catching falling leaves and its flowers withering

as ivy climbs steadily, from fort to tree,

engulfing all it touches

And now March comes, and Britannia unleashes her rediscovered demons

Roots pull away from earth, rain thunders, branches ignite

The tree stands no more, but lies buried 

29 feet below the land.