Felled Pine:
this morning when they came
with bowsaws
and that grinding whine
had its beginning
worse than wolves baying over a carcass
in the wilderness
you sent up your thin protest
of pine scent:
sap rising for spring…
but the well
of fresh-mint pine
green turpentine
will pump now
no more fragrance
all the air filled
with your leaking, seeping…
with the ugly thump & clunk
of log-chunks
as they hit the metal flat-bed
of the truck…
neighbours gazed on new sky
but my ears heard strange roots grieving—
my eyes saw noonday sun
strike dangerous blows
on shrivelling ground
where hot light probed & stabbed…
you were a pine tree
that tendered bark to beetles,
sanctuary to collared doves,
where finches pulled at ranks
of seeded cones
finding their food…
also you gave soft footfalls,
perfume, to my childhood—
the cool of northern woods—
but when afternoon’s breeze
blows up today it will carry
only my raging, outraged tears…
the seething needles’ sweetness will have gone:
not even that faint lament of pine scent…
Words and images © Lizzie Ballagher
