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THE
SPIRIT OF THE AIR
The
Spirit of the Air has it in for the trees.
Every
three hundred years it will come to decrease
the
number of rooftops. Its
candid intrigue
is
to make us believe that our timbers are weak.
I
rise at first light if only to get
a
sight of the trees bashing head against head.
It
seems the horse chestnut might tear up the yard,
the
sycamore go, and the yew break its heart.
The
absence of traffic is a sight to be seen;
only
tree surgeons work, and they work like a dream.
Hardy
old oaks which are out for the count
have
the best of their limbs cut off at the joint.
The
Spirit of the Air also visited Kew,
quite
a few orientals have made their last bow.
Our
climate’s opinion is not kind to them.
It’ll
be a long time before they’re billed again.
I
hear places in Brighton have paid very dear;
streets
once lined with leaves are now mostly bare.
Caravans
of plywood and plastic are strewn
like
huge driftwood heaps on both sides of town.
The
Spirit of the Air wants to make a fresh start.
Our
insults came first and it’s hitting back hard.
If
we want to play games, the game isn’t golf:
we’ll
careen like the trees and will not re-evolve.
A
pretty thought this, as I open the fridge.
Eggs
scrambled or fried? I
can’t decide which.
The
radio says the hurricane has faded.
I’m
sorry. I was worried.
I exaggerated.
Alan
Marshfield
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