Graham Mort

You wake to chainsaws, the stink of sap, a tree’srib spraying into that neighbour’s garden. You think sycamore, the one next to the amputatedash that threatens your roof. You think fuck it watching it shudder and fall, letting in sky after allthe stump-bone splintered. Gravity, finis. The saws go on, slicing the trunk into splittablestaking off small stuff for the shredder. A tree: its column of smoke in winter, brooding acrossyour book in August when sun hunkered behind. At one o’clock, a river enters your living room:orange flames, a holocaust of forest green, its pall coiling kilometres high. Brazil. Fake news.You wonder how to unravel all that. A crane-fly crashes on a web, legs buckling. The saws go on.You close windows. The sound grows pale, more spasmodic, more mute. It’s half-dark these daysafter the equinox. Men back up their truck then pull-start a chipper. The tree flies out in particlesits own god-forsaken myth – a snow-wraith of the air, a ghost of its vertical self arcing intodusk. You’ll still see it when it’s not there. Graham Mort is a poet and academic based in North Yorkshire. His books include the poetry collection “Black Shiver Moss” (Seren) and the short story collection “Like Fado” (Salt)