As if they owned

Between the shire of the last dragon
and the city of spires is the old land,
the land of wood and charcoal,
coal and iron.

In a patch whose trees were felled
the humans leave their cars,
step into the forest where
in slivers of moments
the low sun chooses
dying bluebells,
or new oak leaves
or last autumn’s mulch,
writes leafshadows
on smooth trunks, where
the streams whisper
to the earth to decide
who will pass and who
will stumble.

And the humans walk
as if they owned, as if
they owned until,
back where the trees
were felled, they find
the forest has started
to devour their cars.