Three points of contact with the tree, the way
my mother taught me: two feet, one hand, one free
to hold the saw. A smell of bay leaves now,
pale sawdust on my clothes like flour, the thump
as each branch hits the ground. I’m high enough
to see across five gardens: wheelbarrows
and washing lines, a football goal,
a Wendy house. My neighbour steps outside.
Where’s hubby then? he asks, his meaning clear.
Things must look different from down there. I guess
I seem quite small to him, my saw no bigger
than a bread knife. Not sure, I say, my eyes
on what I’m doing – one hand on the saw,
three points of contact – What did you want him for?