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 ►


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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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