every time the tree surgeons
chainsaw the plan 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, I ask what life
could re-spark from these
clumped, dumb fists?
Green finds a way
our of the knot,
like pagan shoots
through an old religion
poems slow curve heraclitus in south london
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