Big day for other reasons too. The Tree, The Tree, is getting what’s been coming to it, for, like, an age.
Unmanaged and oftimes dangerous, The Tree – which, according to my research, is a Crap Tree – has been our neighbouring nuisance for years: the stuff of emails and photos to local councillors – Tree in the subject line, and then RE: Tree, and on, to RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: – to lemon-sucking parish council members and, eventually, to long-unknown owners of the land and therefore The Tree itself – who, lured forth, declined to go halves on some overdue surgery and urged me behold its natural beauty instead. It has no natural beauty. Poems and billboards better it. It is a young and crap tree.
As I write this room grows with the light that’s been missing for so long; even when it stood, The Tree, in its wintering bones. Branches are falling now between the rain showers – the last in my periphery has gone at that last punctuation. Cut where they fall, they will make for stoves.