Trunk of the oak tree hollowed from a lightning blast.
I used the colour of lightning to shade my dreams...
The shape of my dream?
Curved, curled – foetal.
The lightning shade, shape
gathered into a silver concentrate.
Collected like rain
in the front part of my brain.
The owl-brown earth stuck to my fingers
the knees of my trousers.
She said she wanted me to stop.
Stop talking, describing
myself in the third-person:
describing my life
as if it belonged
to someone else.
Does this mean take ownership of?
The palest green tinged with blue.
I wished for a new way, to create this colour.
New words start rising out of the earth.
They come in hints of yellow and white
form crystals on the cauliflowers
that grow in the rain.
Here comes the silver of the harvest knife...
Again and again I return to the hollow tree,
marvel at the green leaves returning
playing host to my friend
the brown owl.