Instead

I used to lay back on the dirt ground 
and stare at my ceiling. My green leaf ceiling.
Bark trunks rising like pillars. 
My life was a blur of gold and green and brown
and small patches of blue sky.
I was safe under my trees. Their shade
cooling me, calming me. 
Birds sang for me like my own orchestra,
I felt like royalty, being there with my trees.
Sometimes I would climb them, edging myself
up the rough bark and reach the top, seeing
the foliage spread out all around me.
They were there one day. Then they
were gone the next. The green ceiling.
All gone. Tree trunks felled. Everything different.
Suddenly I realised they weren't my trees.
They had just been themselves, but I had loved them. 
And they were gone. 
As if those trees hadn't existed. The harsh sun.
Instead.