Invitation

The doorway opens as soon as the leaves are trampled.

Eyes watching from knots and branches,

bulging out their curiosity even as the shadow passes through.

Eagerly they follow it, only for the tree spirit

to blow them out and close the gate,

keeping the secrets within

so no whispers may spread on the wind.

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She reaches forward now

Bitter, the pills slide down her throat

recalling the shock of months ago.

She thought she’d buried it, good and gone,

but they said she has to face it now.

She cannot keep running on a tape stuck on rewind.

Mind seeing what was, not what is.

She’s being broken down to atoms

so she can be rebuilt.

Possible, but outside of time.

The Walking Tree

The tree gazed at the disappearing ground.

It couldn’t stay there,

its nourishment would be gone.

So it gathered up its roots into vast legs

and stumbled its way across the

evaporating forest

to an area of neat grassland,

digging down to plant itself beside

the hive of two-legged beings

who spilt their freshly poured coffee

and ran to their moving metal boxes

to get out of its wake.

When the sun sets on the third day

If we could trace a thought from brain to mouth,

I wonder what form it would take?

Are the thoughts that get stuck in your throat

giant corks,

bottling your voice

until so much pressure builds up

it pops off and

everything comes gushing out at once?

What if they’re shaped like rare jewels

and are followed by a thief who disconnects the wires so your voice isn’t just held back,

but lost altogether?

Do you build up more walls,

or travel up the staircase

to reconnect the circuit

as many times as it takes?

Igneous

The heart stone is solid,

never fading.

Even in grey light

the complex shadows within

can always be summoned by the wielder

for reassurance,

showing every part of the spectrum

until calm has been restored.

Dried paint

A heart beat encased,

protective snow-globe bubble.

Creative lock-down.

 

Overhead

No birds circle anymore, only griffins, whose

wingbeats hurricane  through the grass

as they claim the right to own the free air.

They fish for green thieves seeking to steal their glinting aluminium treasures.

The twelves hours of day

crumble like biscuits underfoot,

each minute fractured by the bloodied sand

where they leave them to die.

 

 

Story time

They howl and sing under the moon,

cursing when dawn comes calling

all too soon.

But each evening out they sneak

and dance among the fireflies

atop the mountain’s peak.

Telling tales from ancient times,

passed down the family lines,

so none will forget

the history of all fairy kind.

 

And now, the weather

At night came the time for rain,

for rain to trickle through my brain.

All day the sun had roasted it dry;

I’d stared absently into the sky

trying to chase down my thoughts

that flitted around, avoiding getting caught.

But now their wings are wet,

and in the direction of my head they set

just as I snuggle down to sleep,

causing my imagination to take a giant leap.

Flora Hex

It’s a burning under my skin,

gnawing at my brain to scratch

away the heat, to run to the faucet

and bathe my face up to the neck.

A curse for ignoring the tears

of the shrubs I cut back

so I never go near them again.