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.