I wanted to save it:

Leaves that should have been

green and gently serrated, instead

bronzed and curled.

Crowning each branch,

petals that had never opened, defeated;

limp and brown, like hats

fallen over faces that frowned.

Darkness forever swallowing what colour

might have been presented.

It had shrunk in

on itself, as if it searched

for shadows within.

On the burnt ground

around its defeated trunk,

leaves shed before their time;

each a story to tell,

each the same tale,

defeat ruins everyone.

I stood, hose in hand,

water pushing out in a tail

of hope;

too late,

there are some places

from which there is no coming back.