To Cut Down An Aged Thing

It’s the surgeons this week,
hacking their way down
Victoria Street. A job,
one that requires skill,
precision, no doubt,
and these few carve
through the branches
as easy as cake, with no
pause to wipe the sweat,
no tea or coffee break.

Who am I to say anything?
To cut down a tree, fifty years old
with such speed and ease.
With a swift kick, and gravity
on my side, doing most of the work,
I swung my boot and split a stalagmite
in a Somerset cave, sent the thing rolling
and bouncing into a puddle, pooled over
centuries, gathered by the annual drip,
let the cymbal crash rupture
and rip the silent depths.

I thought nothing of it.

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