The streets are alive with the sight of hacked pines.
Sharp and resinous forms, glossy as gossip, turn inward and auburn in January
heat. They lounge on the lawn between footpath and gutter, nowhere to go. Their
pinnacle hosted an angel, their base was once well-rooted. Leaving behind
needled neutralised soil, they have little to celebrate now, shook out as
Binsey poplars, their moment of incarnation used-by, their core interest
destined for the woodheap. What did their buyers see in them that wasn’t
glistered with tinsel? Dead, as said, will someone come to end their
disintegration? Their soon-to-be swift drift.
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