The Tree Surgeon

Pressing against the trunk, he twists around

and back to test the resilience of the branch,

the rope, the safety of his position,

then crawls along a bough - a primate

in his habitat. When he stops to rest and

contemplate the distracting criss-cross of last

season's twigs, plot his next move and where

to cut yet not harm the tree's structure,

he becomes again a modern human.

Next spring it will start again. By autumn,

when this year's leaves have fallen, the space

he's cleared will be filigreed with new growth.

The pressure of a tool on his palm, the timeless

repetitions of toil, seem part of the same

process - something more important than

an individual life. He's caring for trees,

not carving a sculpture that will immortalize

him; would never conceive such ambitions.

At ground level, two men, helmetted,

their ears muffled against the sound, feed

fallen branches through the mouth of a hopper

that spits the shredded stuff into the open back

of a truck. The tree surgeon, gracefully

stretching toward the tip of the tallest branch,

is only not an artist because he knows

that what he does could be done as well -

or maybe even better - by someone else.

Ruth Fainlight's latest collection, Burning Wire, is published by Bloodaxe Books (£7.95)

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