The man tree was our favourite.
A chestnut with two trunks
but looking back...
two trees had grown together.
I built a pin-hole camera about that time...
two pin holes for a new view on the world:
a lot of people with two heads
and trees... but this one was for real.
We'd build a hide-out in its boughs -
before the skies got photographic, that.
Old style. One bough became the pan,
the moment blinding us, the eyes
slow to adjust, the skies
presenting proudly the emerging print,
an image swimming in a tray
raised vertically. And then:
an X-ray of itself, a skeleton
some unseen hand was etching in the mist.
And finally, left over from the flash,
a blue flame dancing slowly still
along the hemiplegic tree's
remaining arm. One arm and leg gone A.W.O.L.
Cropped. And that quite brutally.
The thunder was not done. Rolled on.
Somewhere, you might imagine
the photographer disputing about truth -
the lightning winning out, I'm sure.
This for Poetics: Tools of the Trade (Verbs All!),
Manicddaily's fascinating challenge at http://dversepoets.com/
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