The day that we cut down my Granddad’s tree,
a branch fell off and broke the washing line –
we cut the bones with billhook and bow saw,
burnt what we chopped down small enough to fit
in a bin with a funnelled lid and air holes.
We watched the smoke, smelt pine-sap sweating.
Me and Calum stood there, red and sweating,
over the ashes of the fallen tree –
stoked the blaze with a spoke, through foliage holes.
My brother spun the broken washing line
in two garden-gloved hands (my Granddad’s fit),
with his foot, on the patio, rocked the saw.
Mum and Nanny stayed indoors, peeped and saw
it come down, tea-break time lapse, men sweating.
‘Janet, aren’t my grandsons strong? Aren’t they fit?’
and explained it was better now the tree
had gone; she watched the sun to the sky line,
saw the ruddy glow through net curtain holes.
Dad’s old jumper, stank of smoke, full of holes –
holes torn afresh by the thorns on the saw
when he broke his rhythm, came out of line.
He swore at broken threads, forehead sweating.
‘I liked this jumper... torn it, that damn tree’
he said aside to Cal and I, ‘even if it didn’t fit.’
My Granddad planted it, so it seemed fit
that he should take it down to fill the holes
of hours in his days; his time and his tree.
As Dad lay in his cot, the neighbours saw
Granddad, just younger, spade in hand, sweating
in the same gloves which held the washing line.
He put the sapling in, marked the blood line –
now the children swung the billhook, seemed fit,
burnt the bones, gritted teeth, faces sweating.
Three generations watched the burn-bin holes
as the light died on the skyline. We saw
nothing but torn soil and twigs from a tree.
Down came the old tree and the washing line.
Nosey neighbours saw (their eyes found a fit
in the old fence holes) just four men sweating.
