Clearing   This is the price of light: chainsaws squealing, usual paths closed off with health and safety notices from Euroforest. Yes, I can see further through all that air—trees on the horizon instead of a hand’s breadth away, solitary standards with space for every leaf to drink the light. But I miss the dense silver flicker of birches, thickets for the nightingales. They will return, I know. Meanwhile the earth’s in tatters waiting for green shoots, a million small things to grow                                                          Victoria Field   Hazel path-festooner, soft moss-carpeted modest spindled thing, budding shoots firing on brown cylinders,…