The old man and the tree
It was a different story last night, driving homethrough the jewelled nightscape of the city, branches spangled across the back window,but morning is monochrome: silvered stumps splayedagainst an absent sky, limbs truncated, lopped offat the wrist; a torso stripped by the sure swipeof secateurs. The old man sighs. Hard to equate this petrified presence,these blanched discs…