Birnam Wood

When Birnam Wood shall come to Dunsinane
Only an utter simpleton will strain
Their mind and fail to see what’s going on.
Did not the trees consume the Drevlians,
The konung’s houses and the partisans?
Where have the cities of the Aztecs gone?

And you, young sapling, look so very brave
Before me, brandishing your leaf-trimmed glaive
And at arm’s length, a maple-leafed beret —
How cockily you strut, my green-curled page,
So swift to take revenge, to turn in rage.
Be calm! Each generation has its day.

After our old wood dies, your new wood grows
Though every now and then, a soft wind blows
Towards us, sighing sadly through the trees.
O scent of frankincense, O cloying must
Of immortality, of bones and dust —
Stench of corruption and anemones.

When all’s said, would it really be enough
To know the author of your end? MacDuff
Of whom the witches spoke? The bitter pill
Of Duncan’s regicide, written in blood?
Your spirit, caught between evil and good?
Or six acres of simple chlorophyll?