By Alison BrackenburyWe may know the trees but rarely wood.
Elm was the workhorse,daily tree,[br]pale handle, and for your fork and spade,
a chair as low as a bent knee
nick down for each uneven floor.
Women leaned into its curved back
as the milk pulsed, as birds once pressed
its crowded leaf, or before storm’s black.
The elms died fast,of one disease.
Is that a sapling, in the hedge?[br]No, and hazel with its rose-flushed buds
then young lime with its heart-shaped edge.[br]Its step-grandchild must be the ash,
sprung on street corners, on stone hills, or
until the lightning cracks the wind,
the crest is split, the fine twig spills.
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Source: theguardian.com