Yielded fruit

The ever-flowering present

produces even death.

Night

lamb in grass

stones under foot

kestrel soars high.

trunk stands

hollow branches out

grey black shadow

against the night.

presence slips, slides

through the gloom

shunting hope aside.

now stretching

with jealous fingers

branches dream of stars.

The Marches

The girl with the grey hair walked along the edges. Where the grass crept onto the trodden leaves there was a softness, a slowness. It made the walking seem to drift; now in our world, now in theirs.

There was no-one about but it seemed her journey was noticed and noted. The grey hair floated along the border of the two worlds.

Shortly, she came to a fence. Someone years ago had driven posts into the soft ground. All evenly spaced, they seemed watch duty soldiers, marking the edge of safety. Strung between were the tatters of cross beams, now old and too tired to hold such horizontal regularity. Fungi and mosses climbed over the beams, claiming them for the other side.

The girl hopped over a low cross beam and continued onwards.

Now there was more grass than path and the way less easy to discern. Suggestion took over from assertion, leaving the certainty of the fence-post soldiers behind. Her walk slid into a heron-like sidle through the shallows, wading and pausing at each obstacle.