it doesn’t resist your steps,
forcing heavy legs to limp
through thick thigh-high
silt and water, parting fronds
falling down to drape across
your shoulders, catching foreheads
with the odd pin-pricking thorn.
the trees drinking so deeply
pack themselves around you,
almost marvelling themselves
to waking at this strangeness
trampling through the roots
eyeing the orchids perching
in fragile perfection on logs.
It’s all about the shape of the thought
the way it moves and turns and twists
through passages and problems and people
till it reaches a slightly bloodied destination
at the centre of every human being.
The stream catches a few scattered things
dragging them through the muck and silt
coating every particle with the wreckage
of all the things that flowed along before
and drowned in its rushing waters.
It’s worn such a deep diving path
turning flatlands into hills and valleys
worming their way across my brain
and through every fibre of me
until I found a way to stop the flow.