May 24

let go of responsibility the muscle whirl of stream the shading of the swirls by a sharp    the holder by branch of forward motion the tiny whirlpools made by hooked roots

I see the roots opposite it is a burst spring even on a dull day the bluebells still dot and scatter, cow parsley now out a rage of leaves and green and all this movement and each and each second of raucous bird drill and shuttle releases the pulled tautness of livng – the gaping happens , the slow breathe can start – here with rain, with rain with rain doucement held off with canopy, allows the holding of one’s own mind and body and the unzip accept, loosen, drift

sat on a bluebell, am walking upstream in a fast flow stream, feeling the heldness the lilt of sound it gets so deep here, my boots would easily swell and fill and below me the mud moves like photos of Mars an entire cosmos exploding slowly  into the water each step creates new worlds. I am heels back down a river bank cold slowly taking the wellingtons moonscape bottom marked wild by force I move again upstream, carrying my mudtople worlds/planets at every step if only each step contained the world like this and it does we just forget

the everyday wonder

unless we forge a path forward towards it find our wealth in this

the hair of pond weed chips and whirls to the old tree trunk as voluptuous as any woman’s hair

all around me curls and flows, no other world will do, never

I slipped through a tree!

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may 19

May 19
the greening
willow leaves obstruct the branches and as the water is sucked away the overhead green holds more and more, it is a smell today our feet stepping through the dying pond bottom raises putrid and natural smelled churns these two nearest skulls are now marooned not pillowed by their shiny changing limelighting water
they rest stuck in this stink mud losing some allure yet one of them is greening almost mossy and strands of bones look thiner the sockets larger, pieces worn off or broken hunkering down to leave. this ones eye sockets still follow me i know there are no eyes no macabre thoughts just still a being about it one can picture the bones and then the flesh and remake it into one of the sheep in the field, the other has passed to a new place disintegrate, reintegrate dissolve, more branch and mud, leaf and marshweed than arrival
is this the mineral?
of animal vegetable mineral which is it now?
a sheep with 2 lambs crosses our path to the water tank we are unnoticed again – a sheep tried to visit and rubbed hard on a branch near the last dead massacred sheep.
I walked the pond and in it still slowly going down body morphine I lean on a horizontal branch bubbles move feature and pop lunge glistens things are mulching and living in this swamp
I lean my head over and on other side the eyed skull is with me across the long journey of a festering pond it is a long journey even though it is 20 steps I’ve crossed a world, a lifetime a reason/season of death and stand in my temple held and sinking left heel going down and toes going up head in twigs shoulder
I am skulled across the soup divide both framed and serenaded with the loudness of near sheep, lost noise, begin, a lament for ancestors seems possible are the sheep circling u? Their own roundabout of yearning, finding, losing wool drifts like southern cotton

may 14

maybe there are no words today – lying forward on a fallen tree, legs either side, camera under my ribcage looking up the trunk to the dead branches and the branches newly leaved and feel this tree is another example of that slow go, the holding and breathing away of matter ‘any’ matter human, plant, tree, air, water – no water is the ongoing water’s dispersal is different elementally, knowing there is only a finite amount of water is unlike

this burial, this laying down so comforting like sleep, my feet hang back are in the water not the air gentle rock as this one flows with speed, its like being in air , it takes my foot gently and holds it in an unheld way, I have boots on , maybe that should change…

garlic is the scent, one yellow leaf in the stream against all the new green

the bluebells so unlike water

there is a break in the sky where the tree has fallen undoing the canopy and I feel rain

today I am populating – our bodies, our boots, our shadows, a slug alongside a a deep red bottle sharp blood colour, a dog, a person all invited in, boots in water dangling, then our slip into submersion the shriek of cold ritual and quick recovery baptism of course to complete a returning

discuss if colder or warmer and if water holds its own and air changes, the pleasurable impulse of the first time missing but fun to do and nice to treasure after – our bodies stream encased for seconds that stream now our outer skin, watering us under our clothes – as rain falls to water our outside layers as well, I like this secret knowledge that I will carry into the day

encased in stream

its as if all the ‘outer’ things are taking me today with this populating, maybe I am too tired today, an envy of the deeper mind when mine is tripping lightly at least I am not rejecting that as irelevant because its not deep

legs dangle again from bridge, both write with land stream, I am more attached to the idea of stream than this place – stop writing clare

just go to it