Otherwise on waking :: something about :: the top of the hill :: honeysuckle conferring in the breeze :: where she climbed her first tree :: where in a potentially sooner rather than later :: but distant nonetheless :: future :: she wanted her ashes to pollute :: spore :: the Original One had scoured the same spot weeks earlier :: failing to find the tree :: no matter what had been laid to rest since :: the two of them tied through an invisible spool :: she had taken to calling the Original One late-night at weekends :: to checking for flies in the light fixtures :: hiding razors under the sink :: to feeling so much of so little :: elsewhere :: the Original One was attending circle council at 9.30 :: from 10.30 to 14.30 was free to roam :: the undulating fields :: excesses of green :: no phones allowed :: nothing to shake off the dust :: it’s so beautiful here the Original One commented over instant-message :: then went off without intent :: at 15.00 all were instructed to create a life-lodge :: whatever that might look like for you :: groups splintered off :: the Original One wandered :: wondered :: settling on a fallen trunk :: the fluency of light began to gnaw :: anything that had felt at all certain :: receded :: a wholeness refracted :: the hollowed-out areas of wayward roots :: perpetual chlorophyll living :: a caterpillar chewed on a leaf :: three moths flung themselves to the ground :: the tissue around the site of damage altered :: revised its edges :: at 18.00 groups clustered :: the Original One told a story which was to be mirrored back :: a tree focused largely in the story :: the Original One could not remember which type of tree exactly :: but did remember the smell :: the touch :: the unearthly comfort it could have :: if for one glorious nanosecond :: the Original One would not think :: of him

Lotte L.S. is a poet living in Great Yarmouth, the furthest easterly outlier of England. More of her work can be found here. She keeps an infrequent newsletter, Shedonism.

featured image: Bob Modem