Years on, then the trees needed felling; So once a cathedral-dim dramway, now sunlit, telling The fronded ferns to unfurl their tips In the afternoon heat and catch the hawk's clipped Cry as he soars over the sawn trunks lopped Low to the earth, making seats topped By darkened age-rings.

A smell of petrol mingles with sweetest pine As a distant saw buzzes soporific, sending clouds of fine Gold motes into the air; a kingfisher lapis-blue Flits downstream and into the deeper, denser hue Of shadows; the hillside curve is clearer now Though with a few columned firs cresting the brow, Close-by a cricket sings.

HELENE McKENNA SAUNDERSFOOT