In order to preserve footgear of urban sophisticate, I slither free, laces still tied.
Evening greens fizz: I have to go to the grass… under branches.
My toes burrow in blood-warm ooze.
Ghosts of sunshine.
Wriggle feet down through surface soft to the stone cold earth.
I lean in bark furrows.
‘Hello dear. What took you so long?,’ the tree whispers.
My pulse as loud as insects.
Breeze in, gust out
Under soles I feel writhe of worms, moles’ spade paws negotiating roots and life juice drawing up to branches,
past beetles and spiders,
dreys and nests,
to the sky…
