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.