Iron Oak

Like an iron oak in a liquid land,
Behind its rusty façade standing solid and grand.
With its steely trunk, it's a tower of strength,
Roots seeking mineral blood of the earth;
Gorging like a parasite on its prey,
Sucking and blowing for all it may.
But when the day comes, the fruit is no more,
Woodcutters will come with their gaseous saw.
To be minced for sure, there'll be no place to hide,
All of the pieces will spread far and wide.
What will they become? Who knows? Not you, not I.
The seedlings have flown to the melting pot sky.

-- Steve Popple (Thames Arco, 19/4/99)
Phasellus eu lectus