“Reclamation”

tree, root – pushed through stone,
splitting spilt mortar on old tiles

walk, ivy wind breakers. mansion
walls, rainwatered vine, no wine
left here to drink – broken ground
unclaimed, now, doorway a henge
with filigree runes.

“Trunk”

i heard you in the thunder,
wolf, tree top, empty field.

we marked the bark with knives,
jagged lines turned to meaning:

you told me druids mixed salt
and blood, in places like this.

“Lagoon”

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.

“Bloodied Roots”

beneath black boughs
drinking in sun and rain,
we bled ourselves
among the roots.

wind ran through valleys,
catching dead leaves
and dead men – it screamed
through lives lost and lived.

our Gods dined on blood and salt,
freely spilt and freely given –
they sheltered us, hinted at unknowables
and watched while we were cut down.