Switching the light back on

 

Leylandi that once screened a wilderness

of old tyres and compost, are storm toppled.

A Freecyler with an open fire to feed, clears them.

Then you arrive with wellies and work clothes,

ready to take on a garden that has had its own way for years.

 

Armed by B and Q, you are Russell Crowe in Gladiator,

decapitating plants that have shuttered windows,

slashing through  shrubs  that have barricaded my front door.

By the morning’s end, light, in the living room,

as if the windows has undergone a cataract operation.

 

In the back garden’s thicket, you discover

a snakes’ nest of briars  depending from trees,  

as they sway and strike you lop as if tackling Medusa’s hair.

Engage in a full bodied tug until the a giant tangle falls,

behind it the canopy opens like parting clouds

I gape as day light falls through.