Nature's ignoble tree fellers,
appointed to a task so base, so dire,
like rank, malignant cancers
climb the ranks of leaves, reaching ever higher.
Wicked tongues of fire lick the forest's wicks:
firs lit as though they were a birthday cake's candles.
The wind just deepens further the forest's fix
as it huffs and it puffs to try snuff out the vandals.
What a silly mistake!
Not at all very clever!
Now the fairies will bake
more vigorously than ever.
For the wind, blowing like a giant bellows,
just serves to invoke the forest-fire folk.
And in turn, from the belching forest billows
forth a filthy cloak of suffocating smoke.
The wind brings no joyful sigh of relief
to the forest on this doleful day
but instead brings a joyless cry of grief
as the forest drowns in a sea of grey.
From the overwhelming evidence it would appear
as though the fairies and the wind are in collusion
to bring the proud forest and its residents, I fear,
to a rather dismally premature conclusion.
Each of the Bellow's billowing gusts of air
is greeted with a flurry of excitement
by flames that feverishly flicker and flare
as they are aroused by the wind's incitement.
Gleefully flitting to and fro, they perform a devilish dance
in perfect time to he wayward wind's flow-fluctuations
and, like diabolic ballerinas, they pirouette and prance
to the roaring, crackling music of mutilation.
They welcome the wooing of the wind with leaps of delight
and engage in a rather licentious affair.
Unable to contain themselves, the fervent flames take flight
as burning tree-debris tears free into the air.
Like a highly contagious and uncontrollable disease,
spreading relentlessly further and further,
the frolicking forest-fire fairies infect healthy trees
as they ride the wind and fly from fir to fir.
One by one, the reverend conifers
are consumed by irreverent cones of fire.
Sadistically the vital sap of the firs
is bled by these blood-red raging spires.
Crackling leaves twist and writhe
in the wrath that they incur
as trees are caught in the searing scythe
of the infernal harvester.
The firs are adorned with fiery, flickering lights
and glitter and glow like electric Christmas trees.
What a spectacular sight as swarms of spiteful sprites
revel in the forest-fire festivities!
But this is no occasion for wild celebration
- not for the humiliated firs at least.
Forced to attend their own funeral and cremation,
they lament long-standing fellows now deceased.
But for those fiendish fairies it is cause for elation
as they partake of the delicious forest-feast.
Devouring everything in its path, this conflagration
swallows the forest like a ravenous beast.
The fairies, like a malicious gang of thieves,
pillage this verdurous village with utter disregard
and relieve the trees of all their precious leaves,
leaving these sacred stores of life-force sapped and charred.
How black the blood-red fairies are!
How dark is the glare of their life-consuming tongues!
How black the evil fairies char!
Like nicotine tar clogging Mother Nature's lungs.
With the wind behind, they become a full-blown blaze
and bite like blights into the forest's lofty members.
Swiftly these raging sprites ravage the trees and raze
them to a carpet of feeble, dying embers.
Like a plague of plundering rats, they swiftly spread,
nibbling and gnawing at the forest's fine fir-fare.
To the directions of a pied-piper, they're lead
unwittingly by the wailing wind into a snare.
Saving for last those piquant parts that they most favour,
they hastily guzzle down the dry and tasteless twigs
and then proceed to slowly savour the fine flavour
of the tender and deliciously succulent sprigs.
Without constraint, the fairies partake of the forest-fete.
Sparing nothing, the gluttons scoff, defecating smoke.
But they too will be humbled for they'll share the forest's fate
as they are stifled in their own waste, and cough and choke.......to death!
They are an illness for which death is the only cure.
For these fiends will die if the forest dies.
Inflicting suffering that the firs cannot endure,
they are the architects of their own demise.
With their orgy, they have squandered their ill-gotten gains,
like the parasite that foolishly kills its host.
With no fuel left to feed it, the fire soon wanes
till at that's left is a glimmering red ghost.
Now the celebrations are a thing of the past.
No longer do the coniferous candles glow.
This birthday turns out to be the fairies first and last,
for no longer does the fateful forest-fire grow.
Of humble origin, the fairies were born of the tinder.
Yet, borne on the wind, they proudly soared in flight.
Now, humbled once again, they are buried under the cinder.
But they do not surrender without a fight.
For, despite their sad fate that steadily approaches,
the stubborn die-hards, the more virulent strains,
like a hideous horde of scavenging cockroaches,
viciously rape the forest's sorry remains.
It's pathetic indeed to watch the famished fairies
forage in desperation amongst the forest's ashes.
Even after bringing the proud forest to its knees,
they still have the gall to loot these last remaining stashes.
Both forest and fire are in their final death-throes,
straining against the suffocating smoke-filled air.
This is the bitter end for the forest and its foes,
but at least it's also the end of this nightmare.
But, before a new forest's dawn, must come the old forest's doom.
All these tribulations are in fact just labour pains.
For, with the cinder-rich soil as the warm, nurturing womb,
a new forest shall be born when once again it rains.
| 
Tom Kidding (not his real name) was born in Cape Town S.A. and was still there
when he was 12 twelve years old and started drawing and painting.