In Forests (a sevenling)

Abigail Elizabeth Ottley. Penzance

 

In forests all things green and brown unfurl.

Pale tendrils, creeping roots, and leaping leaves

in shadows tend to sweet conspiracies.

There insects scuttle, burrow into loam, while

squirrels chatter, skittering through trees. 

A priestly jay’s blue-painted wings speak sudden prophecies.

Life’s thus construed, and heaven leaves us full.

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Illuminations

 Maggie Butt

 

Groping into our bedroom in the summerdark

to deter moths, midges and mosquitos

by closing windows before lighting-up the house,

I’m puzzle-stopped by the sight of fairylights

looped through the trees across the road

glistering and sashaying in the nightbreeze.

Clichés vault-to-mind – chinks of champagne

glasses, a saxophone riffing on summertime,

high-voices bubbling in the humid air.

 

I look-and-look, then slip out to investigate,

staring up at the jitterbugging illuminations

until what I’m seeing clicks into place,

satisfying as lego, or the last jigsaw piece,

and I realise it’s the shimmering gloss

of holly leaves, of glistening ivy glazed

with linden-sap, flecked silver by streetlamp,

star-tipped for nobody but themselves,

decked with nothing but their own glory.

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