White, hairy tendrils, dipped in the darkness of the loamy earth, washing amidst a sea of nutrients drawn from the tiny bones of birds and insects. They worm their way up to a heavy tuber that acts at the pulsing, wet heart for the sprawl of limbs that links heaven and earth. A trunk spins its way into the sky, armoured in a rough grain where tiny critters make their home in the crusty recesses. Thin brown sticks, clustered like a tiny forest, supporting canopy of greener shoots that sway in the warming breeze. Atop this minor marvel of creation, a cohort of green arrows suck up the morning sun, and between them, the beautiful end to this slow life, a soft gradient of white to pink marks the outstretched petals of the tiny, happy flowers.
Paddy Dobson
25th September 2020