every time the tree surgeons
chainsaw the plane tree’s growth
back to fingerless knuckles
at the tip of each bough,
it always seems that they cut
too hard and too severely –
every spring, as the blossom
vanishes from pavements
and magnolias resign themselves
to greenness, what life
could re-spark from these
dumb, clumped fists?
green finds a way
out of the knot –
a pagan assurance
that precedes faith
I really don’t like the ending to this as it stands. I know what I’m trying to say but am not happy with how I’ve said it. I’m not one of those “show-don’t-tell” blowhards but I thing some kind of image is needed here to match the clumped fists of the previous stanza. 30/6/25
slow curve
heraclitus in south london
🌱