Outside yet inside the place for supplies, it offered the food of a different nature. I circle-danced round it at sight of a celandine, the season’s first bluebell in chimes of assent through the soil beneath. A live singing sculpture with bird notes through veins in the sheen of its copper. But now I hear years of creation unsung and unsculpted. Percussive machines deafen foliage’s touch against foliage below. Screech upon screech of the slice of a saw severs ring upon ring of arboreal years. It drowns out for always the cello bow twilight oblique over leaves. After they’ve gone, all it was, distant traffic…

car park
for supermarket shoppers
the prices we paid

Diana Webb