Summers consist of peridot mornings, and emerald afternoons. The trees filter the sunlight - so often saving me from those headaches, which might have mutated, evolved into migraines.
By autumn, the leaves have changed colour: a poet's palette of amber, copper, gold and red.
In winter, the trees are slender, with a stark, grey-brown beauty: looking fragile, yet able to endure the harsh frosts of the season.
And, throughout the seasons, "they" plot. They want a concrete universe, so they mark out their potential victims, with orange spots.
The letters to local residents are headed: "Implementation of Environmental Improvements".
Yet, trees can bleed. Scenes of carnage seal the deal. They win; we lose. So much wildlife, instantly evicted.
Fluorescent yellow workmen circle tree stumps, inspecting their day's work - before going for "a pint", and home for tea.
Spring is cancelled.
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