Forests' Fume

Go down to the greenwood today: be merrily light, fruitful and gay. Down in the sunshine, down in the day. There is no other time to give all as you may, for tomorrow hangs heavy in customs that stay. Flee the future's furious flurries like fleas' flick from petrol, to curated wood, sanctuaried dapple. There, embrace our dusty dreams of heritage and tromp upon synthetic seams. Curse carrying our tracking devices as if we won't trust in our ancestors' histories; can't see for ourselves, nor manage without these.

Take a walk as you will to the ends of the deep. There you will find a shadier side from the rush of the hustle and bustle in rustling leaves. Fold over each one 'til the turns of the stone. Spy out their cause in the canopy's throne. Stared into by clear skies of uniform hue that grapple and drey dust to shelter askew.

Have a care as you tread with the bystander's dread of the uncertain ways that stray into these days, leading you away from your habits' ashtrays. We're just a blip's skipped dip in the flume of Earth's stories. Swing our feet upon seeping loam of life-trodden litter, gaily in our steepening creep to the creek stripping air out of gills with our eternal chemicals. Snap a view through your phone's pinhole; stitch three-sixty-degree cover, dedicate your attention to designs of tech lovers. Breath the airs that are filtered through the ambitions of billionaires' tick-tock calculus: solar-system scryers, would-be street skaters. Look otherwhere than how you are headed, for these feet of the trees - how they turn and quite twist the firm on which we stand. Around and about are time-lopped wood limbs: enough to trick an ankle; fell and concuss us. Left all alone by the turn of a stone. Stopped off too neat by the ground 'neath our feet.