Part of some poetry I am working on for Greenbelt festival
The air is harrowed by the song of birds
Each note a spore
Lighting upon the curl of some fertile ear
And the trees of the field clap their hands
The earth exhales
No longer held in the clamp of winter
Breath misting the day into rainbows of light
And the trees of the field clap their hands
Last year’s leaves fell not in vain
Digested as they are by a subterranean stomach
Burping out it’s appreciation
And the trees of the field clap their hands