07 Jun Pollarded Sycamore
Part of me died when I came home to find tree surgeons chopping off the top of the old sycamore that was here before me, and has watched over us the last twenty-two years. Part of me died when I noticed how long it took for me to recognise the violence of this pollarding. Part of me died when my neighbourly yet assertive questions were aggressively dismissed by the burly lumberjacks wielding chainsaw. Part of me died when I knocked on the neighbour’s door – just along the street, and didn’t recognise their faces. Part of me died when the owner offered reasonable explanations and an after-the-fact mumbled apology. Part of me died when the shaking stopped and I breathed again; and I stood in our garden to see the remaining brutal hand of stumps. Part of me died when I imagine the territory of squirrels, birds, mice, foxes, cats and all the other creatures and insects that lived in or under the shade of this tree, cut down in its prime mid growth season. Part of me died when I realised this is a microcosm of the cutting down of trees for the benefit of faceless owners around the world, to suit their needs, while others watch disconnected or feeling helpless. Part of me died to know that I am complicit in this system. Part of me died to know the butchery of our times.
Written from a ‘writing shuttle’ inspired by Natalie Goldberg.
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