Leaf-litter quiet; hornbeam coppice-spell silence.

Rustle-crunch footpad tread alarms creatures sharp –

signal felt – the woodland dim-listens:

woodpecker hammer-tat halt,

coo-choked wing-beat flap-clap dodge-tree

pigeon escapees furrow apprehension

 through tepid woodland confidence –

response to my fumbled caution, fumbled stealth:

human incursion: def-con ten.

 

Two-stroke and twelve-bore:

tools of purpose and intent,

capable of irrevocable effect

irreversible consequence: my responsibility.

 

My domain, my woodland project: not my home;

fragrant pot-bellied caravan-stove wood smoke

brands my wood intruded.

 

Tobacco-chill fingers relish rolling fat, juicy promise;

smoke-aroma hangs cold, causing ponder.

 

I feel perhaps.

Perhaps – my moment.  My motto.

 

Thought-potential flood-dollops imagination

spatter mind-reeling, brain-jigging, head-creoling

endless fairy-loops halting in finger-burn fag-stub

butt-grind into nothing beneath firm boot,

to rot into tree food – like I will,

once my potential runs through death’s glasses.

 

I’ll be tree food one day, as will humanity,

creation – civilisation;

ground beneath ice or fried in the sun:

time’ll know, not I.