and juices ran from its joints and threads,
oozed across the guide-bar and the maker's name,
into the dry links.
From the summerhouse, still holding one last gulp
of last year's heat behind its double doors, and hung
with the weightless wreckage of wasps and flies,
moth-balled in spider's wool…
from there, I trailed the day-glo orange power-line
the length of the lawn and the garden path,
fed it out like powder from a keg, then walked
back to the socket and flicked the switch, then walked again
and coupled the saw to the flex – clipped them together.
Then dropped the safety catch and gunned the trigger.
No gearing up or getting to speeds, just an instant rage,
the rush of metal lashing out at air, connected to the main.
The chainsaw with its perfect disregard, its mood
The last line moves from tedium to threat. This chainsaw becomes a  metaphorical  gun, with its safety catch released and the trigger pulled. It hints human violence.  Abuse of nature isn’t far away from abuse and violence to fellow humans.
Chainsaw Versus the Pampas Grass