A beech tree stands marked by its own history and by human carelessness, and the speaker simply looks at it. The "seven eyes" are the knots left where branches fell away. It's a striking image, as if the tree has grown a new way of seeing out of its losses, and all of them look upward, away from the damage.
Below, at eye level, are the carvings: "Smoke Up. Fly High. Manson Lives." The slogans have a restless, slightly dated teenage swagger, and they sit oddly beside the quiet of the tree. The knife cuts are scars, though the poem doesn't scold anyone for them.
The last stanza shifts to something living and light. A warbler in a nearby oak casts a shadow across the speaker's face, a brief touch of movement. The mood is calm and watchful. The speaker seems less interested in judging than in noticing how wounds, human marks, and wild life all share one patch of woods.