The blackberries are cleared away for another year

He walks down the concrete steps, the axe

tucked under his right armpit and blade

held in his tough right hand. He pauses

before the ground and searches the distant hills 

where grey sea otters float, crack muscles

on their stomachs - it will rain later.

Above his head a crow glides by, there

is a momentarily encasing in darkness

and then the sun regains the high ground.

The air is crisp, turns his breath to mist. The day

is bright, though the light is thick - as if he

is looking through a bathroom’s frosted glass.

He moves slowly to the wood pile where four

large sections of a tree await. The segments

are cut as if a surgeon dissected a giant worm.

Inside the wood is dark, where the insects

have won out, then the wood lightens

until the grey bark that encases and holds.

Behind him, the weeping willow watches, empty

in winter though soon the egg stealing curlews

will gather in large numbers. Sometimes thirty

or forty at a sitting, patient as the nuns from St Josephs

Home for Unwed Mothers; waiting for spring fornicating

to be done and the eggs brought forth to fill their bellies.

Before he hefts the axe, he studies the wood, searches

for the run of the grain; sees where the blade needs to hit,

swings in a blur then whacks the wood, slicing it clean  -

the first log tumbles into being.

He rests the axe, turns the stump and measures the spot

again. Whack, whack and then the next log -

like teeth from rotten gums, each log falls, formed.

The morning light drifts into the afternoon, the sea

otters draw close. The last of the stumps

is defeated, lies in logs around the chopping block.

He wipes the axe on his black t-shirt, rests it against the block,

bends at the knees and gathers several logs. He carries them

into the house , drops them into the wicker basket.

He hears her car turn into the gravel drive then the toot

of the horn she always greets him with. He smiles, turns

to the fireplace to hide his secret joy and relief.