I see a yellow number three,

Fixed high upon a tall, long dead tree.

Its roots, branches, bark, is shorn; and

Now with wires and cables it looks so forlorn.

Standing lonely as it has done for years.

Quite dead, discoloured, and yet it appears,

It carries power, light and even chatter,

To our homes and lives, and that’s what matters.

Long lost cousins all look on,

Fir, Ash, Lime, Beech and even Almond

It’s a scene repeated a million times,

Just one more example of our bloodless crimes.