I enter the green light of the forest and I am in the Otherworld.
Wren speaks in my chest; I feel the rush of wind in the wingpits of my buzzard self.
As wild St John’s Wort I hold my many faces to the sun. I am the green thought driving the idea of bilberries towards their fruiting.
I’m the leaning rock and its twin towards whom it leans, my feet deeply buried in the good soil. As moss, my green pelt gently coats the stone.
Am hazel. I exhale in spring and my thousands of leaves open. Through summer’s dreaming I let my fruits swell into slow new life. I inhale in winter, give away the fruits, let drop all my leaves back into the rich earth.
I spill with the waterfall into the little pool; I become body of otter, fish, dragonfly, deer, badger, boar who lap, breathe, sip, lick, suck and drink me in. Drink us all in.
I spin through the canopy with my fellow goldcrests.
Movement. A flicker of lightdarklight. Sniffing the air, I freeze, then bound with my kin up the steep track to the lost glade. I breathe out the breeze; I breathe in the small summer rain.
I am here, now, and I’ve always been here, or there
© Roselle Angwin July 2016