Potential

Grey light.  Cold trunks.  Leaf litter in the damp

morning.  Chainsaw gloves smell of oil, petrol,

wood shavings and exhaust.  Gloves stiff with cold,

infused with toil and woodland management.

 

A deer crosses, silent stealth, picking soft

through the green-tinged, spring-poised coppice.  March is

in touching distance, harvest will cease while

flowers grow.  No one sees the deer, none care.

 

Kevlar boots, thick and languid, grip feet – firm,

sturdy, toe caps; tools themselves: an investment –

compress feet in slight, comfortable pain.

Legs flex, fingers twitch, breaths hang in clear air.

 

Silence is transitory: a car revs

past.  No traffic here, only folk who mean

to pass or visit on purpose come by;

few stop, less mean to arrive and take breath.

 

Trance broken, two-stroke slosh-glugs fuel tank

full, starter cord-rip cough-chokes engine to

life, gut-revving blue smoke; clearing to a

putting, chink-kick exhaust.  Teeth blaze-cut wood.

◄ Behind the Front

Distraction ►

Comments

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AM Cash

Tue 15th Jan 2019 22:37

Well no idea what this about? I am. Clearly a bit thick and I can not see the Potential. If someone can explain? Obviously in a minority
Cheers Andy

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