There is a tree upon the neighbouring hill,
The sky behind it, all alone up there,
Whose branches, I imagine, grasp the air
As if it took its final breath, that still
Moment in life when life drinks in its fill
And knows itself to be. The hill is bare
Except for that, for farmers cannot spare
Space for mere trees. Mere trees take grass from cattle.

Why do I think I know how that tree feels?
Why do I feel as if we feel as one?
What in me goes up there? What in me kneels
To life that stands upon a hill alone?

Farmers live off the land and grass must grow
But men will breathe their last.  The tree knows.

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Farmers are close to the natural world but they can also be very remote from Nature. But who am I to criticise? They grow things. I eat what they produce. Meanwhile I breathe in what the trees produce. Current edit: 24 June 2014