A few moments, as kettles boil, to record, reflect on part of today’s bus-travel view, a prose-poem even.

Sadness, as trunks, corpses, stacked in-between council flats and road, catch my eye. Mature silver birch, severed, cleared, for no obvious reason. Rowan’s red berries, blood-accusing, on still, green, still green-leaved, felled boughs. I shall miss those trees silent presence on my passage. Their delicate, drooping leaves & rough, sloughed, silver bark my eye to catch no longer. A blemish on my morning journey.

There may well be a good reason for their removal, roots damaging the flats, heart-wood rotting, to pose a hazard for passers by, such as I. Development even, unlikely though it seems in these days of broken council and funding gaps, may beckon, bonus parking or a place for children’s play. Maybe, but I doubt it, in this death untimely, apparent execution.

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