Our amateur tree surgery efforts are quite addictive, because it's so utterly satisfying to see the wood pile stack up and know that there will be fires this winter. We are gathering our own comfort and the exercise endorphins give the task some swift returns. We often combine the hedge forages with some coppicing for extra gratification.
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Mr climbs the boundary of dry wall
Steadies himself with booted feet
Planted firmly down against granite
Stones, against ungainly trunk of tree
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Chainsaw rattles. Mr tests the elected angle
It is uncomplicatedly reachable. Serrated
Blade rotates slickly through the branch
Drops it down onto the old buckled roof
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I drag the cut wood clear
Admire the twist of it
Solid muscular against soft
Textured fuzzes of field grass
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Tangible overhead, a block
Of solid-blue sky. The branch
Is a compact mass, is weight
Pressed against the ground
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I trace the strain in my legs
Pushing my feet into the earth
Levering this length of beech
Out of the twists of thorn
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From weed tangle into open field
The wood is dragged here, where
It will be portioned for the fire
Mr is distracted though, in the hedge
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So many stray hedge branches
While Mr is in situ here he will just
Zip the saw through a few more
And I will roll them out too
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Sawdust sprays on a chainsaw wave
Scatters over leaves and lies on dirt
Whorls of flaxy slivers of tree
Released, fly out, pattern down
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Three more branches fall
Under the notches of sharpened
Blade. Each prize smugly heaved
From the field edge
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Lines of heavy muscular
Streamlined monsters lie
Prone, like we have been
Hunting great beasts
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