Ramblers

Walk

In the forest

Breathing

Looking

Being

Ramblers gather

Near their cars

Greet

Number

Name

Then pierce the fog

Driving / driven

Is it

Snow in Autumn

Scatterings of weaves, of lace

Not pure White

But hued the palest of green

Moss and grass beneath

Waiting

Fungi= they

Crude, raw colours

Have erupted from the ground

From dead and living trees

From the detritus of ferns

In perplexing multiplicity

I saw a conning tower

Above the water

yet I do not call it a submarine

I see eyes

mouth, lips and nose obscured

and yet do not call those eyes a face

I see one of them

And can understand I am seeing only the smallest part.

Riotous colour

Form and shape

Limbs leaping

Saucers jostled together

Moisture pooled like glistening sweat

Light leaps in

Ramblers Walk

Talk

Listen and and be

Forming tendrils of friendship and acceptance

As do they

spiralling in earth or logs

With multiple fibres

Like us

Communicating and knowing

And being truly alive

Miners

Of different races

Dug and drained the high tiers

In the desolate cold

Following lodes of tin

shining, metallic hyphae

Leading to ruin

Till the soil spills the debris of their time

Pots, tractors, glass, and blades

At our feet