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a tree party :: mark waldron

by on June 17, 2017

They’re cumbersome dancers, the trees,
though the birches perhaps have a certain gracefulness,
and the oaks certainly gyrate and stamp their roots
and clap their leaves in a manner that’s both comical
and charming because of the way they put their all
into it. They’re creating a terrible ruckus, and on
the ground are the leaves and twigs and bits of bark
and branches that have broken off in their exertions,
and look like the scattered detritus of a human party.

The trees are doing their dance in a wood. Also,
of course the trees are the wood, which is a hopeless
and profound moment and which I didn’t know was
going to be waiting here like a woodland enclosure
for protecting pheasants when I set off amongst
the cavorting timber like a child at a grown-ups’ party
where everything smelt of cigarettes and drink and
perfume, and adulthood towered over you so libidinous,
and you knew all along that the birds were bred to be shot.

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