I was far from

the root of things and

therefore quiet

of mind. Picking 
holly, breaking stems

with gloved hands.

In each waxy leaf

the gleam of winter’s 
flattest days. So few

berries this year,

and all of them out

of reach. I’d climbed
a steep slope, and in

reaching leant my whole

weight against a birch.

It was only right
to put my ear to it,

as once I’d auscultated

the chest of a man

I tried to love; whose 
blood would press

to the inner meniscus

of skin, and skim

away. I heard this 
time no sap, just

the tree’s own

chambering, a hum

of branch scraping
with another birch

in the rising wind.

Then, four clear

knocks. Who hid 
inside? Or asked

to leave? Or wanted

to come in; to the hill,

the open air, my 
simple ear? Who’s there,

I might have said.

Or found some other

question. Are you at home
in there? Knock,

knock. I know

of a man who,

faced with ancient 
handprints in Chauvet

Cave, saw not an imprint,

but that someone still

pushed firmly 
from the other side.

But what then of

the drawn bison,

the stalking panther?
Do they prowl and

moan behind it all,

coming at us through

even this bark, resolute.
Who’s there, I want

to say. There are no limits

anymore. Everything burns

and dissipates or
somehow roots in.

Joseph Priestley

felt his one death closing

in, no more than a high 
whine in the tips of

of the trees. He said

goodbye, and covered

his eyes, that no one
should witness what

passed.  In the end,

we always seem to

face a kind of shame.
I moved my head

away from the tree’s

inner murmur. Enough

gathering for today.