I am the true vine.
And my father the vine dresser.
They came to cut the high trees on the steep inline.
The ashes, sycamores and beeches are getting old and their growth lesser.
They abseiled dangerously high.
Up upon the great trees branches now withering.
Towering majestically into the sky.
Cut down in an instant with with chain saw stuttering.
Pruned now the healthy trees will grow better from their high healthy spire.
The old branches will die and wither.
Collected they will be cast into the log fire.
Cut from the tree they are useless, their dead leaves will scatter.
And are we pruned already to bear more.
Is it his word that is the mystical pruning saw.