Poem 84: Day Tripper

does your months trickery of Sundays
spent as shiny country one days
bring a least a mantis of hope
for all the hollow beeches
an their tubes of fine steel
laid in by the micro’s eye
embalming constant life
for the lifting up of fairy lights
on chains of wired thread
lavishly dressing
the patient wood witness
to the crippling of seasons
passing no more
beneath its shelter
except for the pinning of clocks
and the ticking measure
of the latest beetle
still death watch, but now
humming a cold litany
for the freezing
of the now solid, too solid beech.