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ENGLEHART
There is a place on highway eleven that is called Englehart,
Like any country place, farms, barns and animals do their part,
But on the north side of the town a large paper plant does loom,
Spewing forth smoke, to me a picture of sad gloom and doom.

Rows and rows of dead trees lie dejectedly waiting for their turn
To be changed into paper or pulp, I wonder do they still yearn
For the feel of swaying in the breeze, stretching up to the sky,
It seems such a shame that all those acres of trees should die.

From now on I will no longer any paper throw away and waste,
For I well remember all that belching smoke and the awful taste
Left in the mouth, when just driving through that small place
And I’ll think of thousands of dead trees, not standing in tall grace.

(Millicent) Ann Margetson 5 April 2004