And if nimble fingers could penetrate the dappled canopy
I could touch light itself.
Or to even brush the fingers of giants,
tracing their palms with my fingers.
I feel an understanding, a knowing.
I too sway;
sometimes literally, sometimes metaphorically.
And with a bygone age bending over me
as though whispering a secret,
Though not understanding the tongue, I hear the spirit.
And yet no.
For as me, a commodity of convenience.
And too, as me, weeping sap from the marrow.
A ringed being,
rooted in detritus and consumption.
Not even the cobwebbed sky and her silken droplets
can appease the reality of the moment.
Like my other neighbour’s mellow cricket ball,
persuaded into the murky river.
Photo by Me.