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Lament for the Elms
July 31, 2018 in Creative Process, How it was then, Poems, Poetry, Topical Commentary, Uncategorized | 3 comments
When I was young
I’d go into a field and draw
small boys would come to twitch and say ‘Are you a real
artist Mister?’ – if I knew I’d tell
I’d pull my bike
out of the hedge, re-pack my box,
& dawdle to the edge of town
past oak and dancing counterpoint of elm
the natural language of that place and time.
My student and my wander years behind
back in the city, on my bike again
I ride to Greengate House from Hanley Road
through Stratford’s acrid air, return
over the railway bump,
past the Precision Screw
Co Ltd and then
the Balls Pond Road to swing into Green Lanes
riding the traffic with a boatman’s skill
and wondering if ugliness can kill.
There’s pride in action; I am not aware
that trees are dying as I ride
the city gapes, a concrete trap
with me inside
while in some country lanes I once knew well
trees wither, get cut down, or fall
the country dwellers pick their sockets clean
there is no way to tell where they have been
– nobody sets a tombstone for a tree.
And was it you who forced me to discover
a tree-shaped absence in my mind?
to tell the truth, I really don’t recall
how the elms looked at all.
Why did it take me so long to remember
what I had so efficiently forgot?
It took me till I hit my head to know
the elms had gone.
I did not see them go