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Phil Maillard

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Felling the willow

Vanessa & Yasmin
           Tree-fellers
come, on a bright February Saturday
           to fell the willow

I hate to cut down
           a living tree

but its too near the house
           tap-roots in the foundations
                      fifty feet away

I’ve got photos
           from 13 years back
                      when we first came here,
the willow was just shading our lawn;
           now it’s stretched over
                      next door as well

And it’s not fully mature yet

Strangely, the magpies loved it,
           clinging onto the green fountain
                      in their outsize, squabbling way

Vanessa, harnessed in air,
           cuts, while Yasmin
clears the debris, offers logs,
                    but I refuse.
Not willow. Not worth the chopping.
                                 Or the storage.
                      Burns sulky.
           Beech now, that’s different...

But I’m uneasy
           all day, can’t settle
                      while the chainsaws are grinding.
I’m taking snaps, not wanting
           to miss anything, but also
I feel caged, restless,
                      not liking
           being here, seeing this,
                                 trying too hard
                      to squeeze a meaning from it
           & finally realising
the unease is the meaning.

 

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