A brilliant poem by Phil Poyser.
it towered 50 feet above the Leylandii fronds.
rooks had nested in its canopy and swayed precariously
– like today –
as if full sail on choppy seas, running before a
On such a day,
surely the only danger is ceding to the gusting gale,
tearing and tugging at those roots.
Ah, not so,
for swarming up like a rigging monkey,
roped and helmeted, with chain-saw dangling,
comes the arboreal nemesis of standing proud.
from one pitch to another, he picks off
branch after branch, each carefully lowered or crashing down
according to its girth, then metre lengths of trunk
and skull-busting slices, thudding to earth,
till just the
r e m a i n s,
s t a r k