Because you’ve grown and grown -
too tall, too broad, too thick -
so we must cut you down.
Because your spreading mantle
does darken all our plot -
so we must cut you down.
For your ambition upward,
though long since trimmed each year,
means we shall take you down.
No more that thrash of branches,
in spring storms spilling
graceful rain from your lopped crown.
No more our summer refuge
under your shady dappling,
leaves by breeze all fribbled.
No more the autumn tableau
of patchwork turning,
green to amber then to red.
No more, when lastly naked,
will full moon rising
silver your tissue paper skin.
Yes, old friend, we are intent
with rope and screaming blade,
limb by limb to bring you down.
And then your trunk, disabled,
is creaking hinge of life
before the door is slammed.
Out from the piles of fallen bark,
ladybirds diverse escape
your diamond fissures dark.
Pigeons, where once they paused,
fly through an empty space -
the enclosed light let loose.
So, stump apart, now lawn
is level playing field,
while in the ground roots pulse.
