Storm Isha, Storm Jocelyn... and the endless distraction of fallen trees

After the Portimao racetrack I rode the Estoril circuit, where Ian Hutchinson

Crashed at the end of the start-finish straight at 180 miles an hour;

He walked away from motorcycle wreckage they could fit into a handbag.

Another week, another motorbike track-day stillage and home in winds

That almost dislodged the plane from the grip of the sky. The trees

Were thrashing themselves with their own branches, doing penance,

And the scraped-up, stacked-up accumulation of everything not done

While I was gone, festered unbecomingly. My two adopted huskies

Re-adopted me, attentive, as if unsure of another departure, and the owls

Re-established their indoor visits even as I prepared

For a pre-dawn diversion to London to witness the dissection

Of a fallen tree in four gardens, one of them mine.

So, there I was in East Dulwich on a Thursday, via Estoril,

Manchester and Mid-Wales since Sunday. I collected a vanload of logs

From the arboreal dismemberment of recumbent eucalyptus

And walked Lordship Lane for a coffee, with the stink of fox

So strong that it brought my father to mind for a moment.

I look at my life and wonder at the obstacles and events

That distract and dissemble, so that painting and writing

Are further off than a plane flight, and this poem is a life-raft.