Busby Berkeley in the Holm Oaks
Still dark days pining for light
when a Vespa drone of chainsaws –
pulley strapped on migrant shoulders,
bandoleers with pearl apostles –
go criss-cross waltzing through
our borrowed acre of Holm oaks.
With their hauling stirrup pads
they swing in the leafy rigging
as if dressing an opera backdrop.
And just as our time
should be, and is, indifferent
to the oakline, and like a set change
reading from stuttered prompts,
they lop more than their usual
stray saplings, till one whole
timber bowl comes down,
curtains part, and decades
of pent up light begin to warm
our cool January wall.
And when time itself bears witness,
the bandoleers in silent single file
accept applause as their due
taking back the Zen carmine,
from parterre, pit and gallery,
deeper, deeper and dimmer
till that diminuendo of nothingness
is unable to fathom an encore.