There isn’t much to say.

There isn’t much to do

between the pendulum-swing

of witchcraft and watercolour.

Tending to our plot

dipping our toes

into the rhythms and melodies

honeyed by memory.

*

Other sweetnesses have been

gardened: mowing, planting

with friends and the bees;

the snails communing in the weeds;

travelling and trusting to the hedgerows of hawthorn,

custodians running and guarding the roads

in a wash of white, with

sprinkled cow parsley waving nearby.

*

Dancing under the yellowing light

of a half-moon waxing with radiance

before rooting into vegetables, trellis and earth;

toasting to rites and riots whilst

casting feathered petals to the wind in future’s honour

my ankles and thighs deep in

shadowy waters of black salmon:

I am careful as I continue to tread softly in blind faith.