Will Grow Again

Aches and minor pains have paid the fees
for yesterday’s excess – 60 trees I guess
were pruned; a waste in venture terms, a
gesture to placate aesthetics I have yet to
rate or comprehend. Hands vibrate today,
both ears still ring reflexively from revving
engines shrieking malcontent, of trashing
limbs with tactless ease. Scratches are all
dressed with melaleuca oil, tea tree if you
please, which stings a bit but guarantees
a clean foray for minor wounds redressed.

You smile at me indulgently; the job we’ve
done you say looks great, the block is neat,
signifies our management is on the beat. I
keep a silence harboured in the lee of your
content. No need to say a word or disagree,
or further my distress remarking trees we
pruned were destined for removal anyway.
An eyesore fixed may well have paid your
vanity a compliment, but it delays a phase
in timely future plans we’ve missed. Trees
will grow again because you say they can.
© 3 July 2008, I. D. Carswell