Scant years ago, in Nifty's day, twixt Bradleys Head and Taylors Bay, where'ere you looked towards the sky the rampant green leaves filled your eye. 'Tis true the paths were wet with clay where now you walk a smooth, dry way to see dead branches, sere and bare, replace the forest's verdant hair. It's not the paths that maim the trees or kill the blooms that feed the bees. But let's not make an easier way to see an ever worse decay.
If blight's the cause and can't be cured, and if the bush can't be insured, perhaps new planting must be done to bring back green beneath this sun, else strollers on new paths will see a skeleton where stood each tree. Because this policy is right, in course of time we'll have the sight of shady forest here once more, the tresses for the rocky shore. Then the old paths can be replaced, through the forest newly faced, to carry crowds who'll loudly cheer the bold decision once made here.
Copyright © 1998 Peter Leon Collins