Monday, 29 May 2017
Put the sky behind you and clamber down
from the wind harried ridge to the deep coombe.
The air becomes still, the trees exhausting.
June the third and these plants would consume you
if such was their nature. Turn and turn back:
the weeds sprout even while you look away.
Drop to the bridle track, shrink to the beads
of dew, cuckoo spit froth, blackberry spike,
stick, splinter and mould. Ant, aphid, woodlouse,
and all the catastrophic underworld
are attending to their chores, chopping up
flags of leaves; new buds bulging in their spoil.
Careless, instinctual, organic - they're all
just a plague away from taking over.
Now shrink smaller still, down to the crazy
ommatidia of a beetle's eye,
gaze through a foliage kaleidoscope
- observatory to a mushroom sky.
First published in Popshot Magazine no. 17 Summer 2017
Thursday, 11 May 2017
This is where we sit to watch the night come in
ever since Trumputin bombed our English towns.
We emptied freezers, ate our neighbours pets.
Now in the bird-settling, when we once sat down
to be tamed by tv shows we can't recall,
we recline here and watch the weeds approach
knowing soon their rope will be a ligature
that tightly winds itself around our throats.