Once I had a tree house here
in the branches, ivy covered
next door the blue tits' mossy home
full of scruffy chicks.
Hidden in my tree-top den
I watched the squirrels, fed the birds
and read the Enid Blyton books
my mother never liked.
As a child I always thought
this place would never disappear -
next door's blue tits always there
with gaping mouths to feed.
Now I cannot find the place
among the piles of sawn down trees,
hand painted hoardings shout at me:
Danger Men at Work.
They're cutting down the woods,
the ivy, branches and the nests.
The worried blue tits scream in fear
now they have no home.
When the work is all complete
this will be runway number two -
tourist flights will leave from here
where once the blue tits flew.
(this is an old poem I found when I was digging around in my poetry box over the Christmas holiday, I've never had a tree house in reality, for those who might wonder!
Remember to feed the birds, they need all the help they can get in this freezing weather!)