The thirteenth hour

These elderly invaders 

Have long since gone 

Native on the poor rocky 

Soil and ancient drainage 

Where Bold Kevin 

His chainsaw 

And his musical ear defenders 

Cut logs for fuel from 

The fallen corpses left by 

Unexpected storms 

Business has no place here 

In the shadow of fierce uplands 

Where desperation breeds resignation 

Just at the moment 

When cooperation should 

Confront change 

And so wrap its many selves 

In a warm layer of 

Birdsong and light 

The blue plume of the two-stroke 

Lingers and seems 

For a second to 

Look west 

Then is dispersed 

Conveniently forgotten 

Amongst the restless pollen clouds

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