Summers consist of
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
gold and red.
In winter, the trees are slender,
with a stark, grey-brown beauty:
yet able to endure
the harsh frosts of the season.
And, throughout the seasons,
a concrete universe,
so they mark out their potential
victims, with orange spots.
The letters to local residents are headed:
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.