Thanks, Max, Doug, for sound advice. I have acted upon it, reducing the 'you' count considerably and excising completely extraneous dogs and spiders.
Cheers,
Bill
Twin-trunked willow flicking broken rocks with dangling tresses;
parting rustling green curtains offers entry to a private glade.
Yellow leaves clog the base of a once-fountain. Olive walls keep
shimmying. Sun spatters on the revealed bright floor. Looking up,
hugely knotted heads top both severely pollarded mainstays,
defying easy climbing access from ground level. Crustily upright,
Genus Salix, you'd cross your arms if you could. Unspectacularity's
your scene. Yet drain-disturbing roots, longer than any branches,
extend to all quarters of the lawn. Tracking down water, some
erupt into nuggety elbows, the better to mess with mower blades.
Admitting and rejecting light, you don't so much weep as shelter;
and provide: elastic green whips for me, cricket clubs for older boys.
From height, twisted vines offer Tarzan-style airy swinging freedom.
Unlike Ophelia who slipped to burbling death from your broken arms,
I always feel safe, perched on your mottled bark, ladder angled below,
listening to soft sounds of whispery sweeping. So benign, so accepting.
You barely whimper with each sharp serrated bushsaw action.
One cent per foot of fleshy limb I earn, two cents for bark-encrusted
branches. When Dad returns, I'll have enough for a pack of smokes.
Bill Wootton
13 December 12
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