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.