The Death of a Tree

The man in the yellow helmet in the cherry picker has arrived. I saw him at the neighbours down the street. At first I thought he was working on the hydro lines, but then he started cutting the tree.

I thought, at first, that he was just giving it a trim, but then he kept on going. “He’s going to cut the whole tree down,” my husband said. “No, he can’t do that!” I said.

But then he did. Branch by branch. It was too horrible to watch. It was like something living was being killed. Which it was.