Hymn to a Mycelium
Behold the hidden, the beneath, the underground.
This creeping life weaves connections
between roots and rocks. A scavenger
has no judgement: with death, there’s growth.
Hyphae threads make a sunless city that never
sleeps, beats with the rhythm of mycelium.
Perceiving alien that throbs invisible,
a trip beyond gravity, beyond logic,
that shares itself with plants, pierces
their roots for exchange, links tree to tree
in humble silence.
Horse chestnut
green hands
grope, fresh-washed
from the shower
of spring sunshine
Samurai Maple
Your shape is squat and
heavy. Your leaves are
the dried-blood red of battle.
But each dainty leaf moves without malice,
transforms the blind power of the wind
into riffle, flap and flutter. Overlapping
movement with quiet economy.
Your leaves are red scales,
the tetsu of your armour. Tethered by light.
You live by the frugal elements
of water, light and warmth.
Your silent bushido.
Flight of the dragonfly 