Timber - original poem

On Sunday morning the Limber Timber
Company turned up. Kitted out in orange
day-glo bibs, thick gloves and helmets. Like a pair
of cricketers stepping up to the fold.

Spreading their tarpaulin out they get to work.
The usual Sunday morning sounds of church
bells, birdsong and the intermittent whoosh
of car are shattered by the chainsaw.

Smell of pungent pine floods the air
as amputated arm by amputated arm
trees are reduced to stumps of their former selves,
creamy pulp the colour of day-old bandages.

Over rough ground limbs dragged down steps
hoisted into orange shredding machines.
Nearby trees and bushes shake with fear.
They cry out, “Stop!” And for a moment

all is quiet. Before a sound like a dentist
drill begins again. The last large branch resists,
twists in the shredder until it too
is caught and dragged under. Finally,

the silence of sacrifice. Squirrels
re-emerge, look round with nervous eyes,
wonder if the wind will miss the feel
of combing pine tree needles.

by Nadia Tighe