Poetry

Pruning the neighbour’s feijoa trees

Ancient branches twist and snarl, under attack
from shining shears, inflicting scratches

on the forearms of their attacker, pushing him
madly beyond the fence line, dangerously high

on his unsteady ladder; closer now to distant Helios,
his cap-helmeted head above the common melee

like tall Achilles, who in the heat of dusty battle
may also have snapped branches with his bare hands.

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