Lime Trees Poem by Paula Puddephatt

Summers consist of
peridot mornings,
and emerald afternoons.
The trees filter the sunlight -
so often saving me from
those headaches, which might have
mutated, evolved into migraines.

By autumn, the leaves have changed colour:
a poet's palette of
amber, copper,
gold, and red.

In winter, the trees are slender,
with a stark, grey-brown beauty:
looking fragile,
yet able to endure
the harsh frosts of the season.

And, throughout the seasons,
'they' plot.
They want
a concrete universe -
so they mark out their potential
victims, with orange spots.

The letters to local residents are headed:
'Implementation of
Environmental Improvements'.

Yet, trees can bleed.
Scenes of carnage seal the deal.
They win; we lose.
So much wildlife, instantly evicted.

Fluorescent yellow workmen circle tree stumps,
inspecting their day's work -
before going for 'a pint',
and home for tea.

Spring is cancelled.