Under the Plane Tree
Turning a corner on Capitol
Hill North, dog and I startle:
the nerve-wracking metal din
of some big rackety machine!
Seattle Parks and Recreation
have sent a pickup truck proudly
logo-ed, and a powerful
front-end-loader now loudly
scooping up the fallen leaves
from my favorite plane tree
that’s constantly impressed me
here for over twelve months.
Tall, broad, shapely, not lopped like
so many city trees; in a grassy
triangle. Summer's youth leaned bikes
on its mottled trunk, camping overnight!
I’d rather person-power took
leaves quietly - man with rake!
Ah, there’s one! straight back,
strong arms, and muffled
after last night’s almost-frost.
Elsewhere these men are armed
with leaf-litter-blowers
of high-decibel powers.
Yesterday’s prompted - between
me and another street-wanderer
of my extreme vintage - mimed
exchanges: ‘Can’t hear you!
Dreadful din!’ ‘Noise pollution!’
It’s Fall (as I’ve learned to say,
still preferring ‘autumn’
in my bookish way)
not of course just here
but ‘temperate latitudes’
round this hemisphere -
while Melbourne dudes
(so I read in The Age online)
under Carlton’s London planes
are stuffed with springtime’s
pollen till their sinuses
succumb, and worse! - fibres
that choke! Strange! I must be immune.
Keep your distance, plane-tree lovers,
maybe wear masks like canny Japanese.
Find shops and cafes far from these
lovely dangerous deciduous trees.
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