In homage to the wonderful, achingly honest musings of Alex Wright, I wanted to pen a few lines to reflect upon a spot of digging I was doing earlier today. Words started flowing in my head and I needed to pause to try and capture them. You can call it poetry, if you like:

Roots : they stick out, they burrow down…

Always searching, restlessly, relentlessly, their ponderous march towards infinity – mapped out amongst earthworms, soft tendrils, snaking and wisping /whispering, their alma mater cascading from the air :the default of sun, rain, showers, downpours, windy days and breezy afternoons.

What is above resembles nothing like below. Who could care to know when we witness hyperreal greens, luscious stems, the fragrant hum of bee pollen, dew in amongst the lattice of a plant’s drifting imagination. Could they sing to us, a tune of folksy proportions, a ballad that absorbs our candour?

Here, now. Be. The roots will continue to search, longingly, for the reason of their birth : see them entangle, twisting, diving. They are permanence beneath the brownest of soils. They centre everything.

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