Pruning

I dock the dead, the damaged and diseased;
the gnarled and dry come tumbling from the heights
until I stand knee-deep in bits, well-pleased
I’ve put a few square yards of world to rights.
I clip and crop, encouraging new growth.
My fingers start to ache but still I snap
my Homebase secateurs. I grin as both
the gleaming silver blades expose more sap.
I deftly make the kindest cuts, and take
the part of surgeon, Adam, God. But mend
myself, I cannot. No sharp shears will make
me sprout, or slow my geriatric trend.
So, wrinkling, stiffening, stooping, short of breath,
I spend my weekends saving plants from death.