This poem first appeared in the Winter 2025 issue of Door Is A Jar.
On a boat tour near Picton,
our attention is directed
to a stand of dead pines
on the island hillside.
The captain explains the Agency
has worked hard these past years
to poison them away.
Introduced a century ago
as lumber for this port town,
they now offend as invasives.
Rising above the native scrub,
the newly executed
covered with brown needles
below the naked gray skeletons
of the first lot, stand now as
warning to others outside the gates
don't dare come closer.
Drifting past the pines
we're treated
to the next sample of wine and told
to look in the other direction
where we'll see some beautiful
new holiday homes.
Scott McConnaha 