Darts Trophies

Beneath a snap of dull brass angles and glassy green
Was an enquiry about darts trophies in the trees
Obviously stolen by the Beech
For the sisterhood of trees
For the sake of the Oak
Old as they are and too genial these days to care
For the thud of splitting cork
And the wreck of revenge.

A corps of Beech, creaking with anger
Strode down pavements
With long-rooted toes and leafy armour
Cast their arms on the doors
Of slack-jawed, portly men in pyjamas
Shrieking ‘How dare you hurt my friend’
Wrestled away the gilded bones from the mantel
And scarpered, rolling as they ran
Like great green battleships on land.