Volcanic ash layers up to form blackened earth in which things grow eventually.
Bird black eyes follow me dot to dot to dot. Unfurl heaven feathers in a real place, clipped to bodies with quick-paced hearts that live a short but lofty lifetime.
Looking out of the window, Alice saw a knot in the branch become a crow. It moved along like a train under the bark, a train made of molten sap. It broke through and grew black wings which spread and took carefree flight, but only after a long look back from the other side of the window.
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.
Over the stones
Wet the path you follow
As you hit your stride,
Sway side to side and cut your name.
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.
kissed the path up to the old church,
round the back, velvet tendrils
curled like Eve’s hair.
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.
Trees are their own entity and they are, themselves, a home for others.
Roses and violets make a tapestry at ground level, softer than anything I’ve ever touched.
Vipers swim throughout, unhindered by the infectious reputation of a religion that’s irrelevant to them.
Knowing nothing of their star rating and the hatred enclosed in the cultural heart, they silk through, sewing their presence through the garden’s fancy.
the arc of my back bridges the sky and the thing below it
my body holds my own suffering in it and blends with the tributaries that flow so constant and fresh into my head
i dig my hands into the tree and it stretches up into my leafy fingertips
i spread my arms in the soil and the carpet ripples above with my sigh
my eye feeds the plants and fauna with enriching summer gaze
the puddles are my pooling sweat from creative effort
grass blades are the hairs on the back of my neck
they sweep in the wind of my breath and the dew is my morning tears placed on needle point