Between bluebells and brambles
a coppice untangles brash,

thins out tall trees. In a cacophony
of crows, witch-elm and ash

lean and fall to his chainsaw’s yawl.
They beckon the sun come play

around their sappy stumps.
Last autumn’s coppicing fountains

green jets. It’s suddenly awash with
a promise of pea sticks and fence panels,

carved splats and spindles. Nursing chairs.
His strangest ash will be a new lathe pole

turning long pale ribbons for rattles.
Wild flowers will bathe in the open light.