says the sign tacked to a barbed wire fence
         as if the singular anger of a pollarded old oak 
could be contained months after it passed on

as if the wrath of a mass plantation shackled
         by stanchions and slipped into plastic tubes 
could be excused, as if the rage of the lonely

front garden acer could be easily explained,
         as if you could justify the lopped off limbs 
of an ash desperate to bridge a tarmac span

or the indignity of topiary inflicted on yew,
         cropped into outsize lollipops and peacocks, 
as if being labelled scrub or urban furniture

weren’t enough or the slavery of being unable to 
         escape the chainsaw, the pain of being
stubbed and dehorned, your crown hat-racked

and topped, pruned wounds sun-scalded
         and invaded, plagued by pests and disease, 
as if a tree didn’t already hold enough rain