They sit before him as he writes
– an insult and a kindness, both the same –
mementos of a tree he loved, sat under,
loved another in its shade, laid plans
he thought the tree would see, ancient
as it was, a familiar of the parish
he had dwelt in, it had favoured
centuries before. Centuries when fields
were tilled, common land was open, free
for whosoever trod the paths, gathered
brushwood, grazed their individual beasts.
Gone, as is the oak felled in the name
of progress, of profit to the carpenter who,
hearing of his loss, has made from it
these rules that gather dust upon his desk;
rules pricked out in inches the tree out-topped
in feet. A kindness, to allow of his regret;
an insult, mocking what he can’t forget.
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