If anyone has a soul, everyone has a soul.

Snow-studded sycamore with a bird in, with a brain in, with a soul in.

How lucky are we with souls in the trees above us and the air around,

with souls in the soil beneath us and the flesh among us.

Advertisements

Diary

This is the first thing that comes to mind:

that time when an “important” someone said I wasn’t pretty in not so many words.

This is the second thing that comes to mind:

the things I write are, so often, a sapping showcase of my vulnerability.

This the the third thing that comes to mind:

my poor little dead bird in the soil.

This is the forth:

I cried so much over that dead bird, harder than I’ve cried in years, so hard that I hurt my throat, that my mother said she hasn’t heard me cry that hard since the first time my heart was broken when I was 18 and still a girl.

Waterway

Trickle, stream,

Over the stones

Wet the path you follow

As you hit your stride,

Sway side to side and cut your name.

 

Rush river,

To the sea,

Whirl the stones around

As you carve deeper,

Denting the landscape

Making a new place

Between surface and bed.

 

Bigger fish live in you now

With gaping mouths

As you reach yours

and thrash happy into sea.

Cleft

The tree grew around Gary and he didn’t struggle, he was glad to be hemmed in.

The walls shot up in growing panels and clicked into natural place,

he was enveloped in the smooth, the woody gnarls on the outside, protecting him from the elements, and a wooden smile etched into his face.

Bill had planted the seed, and when he found Gary set inside so perfect, he wished he’d hacked more heartily with his hatchet.

He imagined Gary like the hazelnut in a toffee, cut in perfect half, and the wooden smile jumped across, rooting, delving, fingers rifling in his nut.