***
I blur the forest’s contours,
The trees lose their shape,
The trunks turn to Stravinsky’s
“Le Sacre du Printemps”.
Snapped heads and twisted forearms
Oaks, hornbeam, beech and spruce –
A spectacle of bodies, a regimented storm.
I blur the blue bell carpet,
The eyes cling to my feet,
The Belgian blue cattle
Chew blue grass and granite.
Ago, some million years,
This forest was the sea,
The calcite veins of blue stone –
Are strewn with small fossiles.
