DAVID ROSS LINKLATER

The Feller

The best work is done between
the first and third smoke.
His hands are scored
with elements of that space.
Dirt and petrol, the oak spit.

The size of them!
Each marked red for the future
and other fuels. He has given
himself to the ceremony
since he was a child,

understands himself in the forest.
His waterproofs pale as a winter sun.
His shadow out amongst the bracken.
It is understood that as a person
owns a machine,

a machine owns a person.
It is understood in the blows of birds
unstuck at the rip of the engine,
their hearts tripled to a waltz,
quietness is an art hard to master.

He has spent his life aiming for it,
angling the notch cut, thinning the hinge.
Then, the lean, the tremendous fall.
A storm of atoms he has stood
in the eye of, somewhere else,

a whole sky clutching its new light.