The Olive Trees Of France

In darkest night the trunks are stone.
The bark is cold and hard as bone.
The leaves are tipped and poison flows
through the olive trees of France.

Along the branches beetles scurry.
Eerily in endless hurry.
So many they just seem to bury
all those olive trees of France.

With long to go before life's light.
No nature's breath to pierce the night.
Backbones rigid, braced to bite
are your olive trees of France.

Yet trunks do thaw when drowned in sun.
Bones do break and come undone.
Poison ebbs and blood does run
through the olive trees of France.

With branches free they swing and sway.
In graceful dance throughout the day.
Prepared for those who come to play
are these olive trees of France.

Weighed by leaves all curved and green.
Branches dropp so none can see.
That as i sleep they cradle me.
Do my olive trees of France.