Laura Dent 

    My forest bed

where green comes in swathes
and leaves sway with calm susurrus

at home
among the gaps that
I walk through

trees
extending
like monoliths

their heavy presence
bearing no weight and me
no threat

when I feel breathless
this wooded chamber
breathes for me

air
flushed with petrichor
in each fold of breeze

as my mind unravels
under canopy, cradled between woven tendrils
my fingertips skim, stirring

my insides
opening, the sylvan tongue
of a violin under which I unfurl

bare
like the torn corpse of that tree
laid outstretched

suspended in mid-air.

Sing to me      moisture soaking through my skin
I want to breathe this wordless feeling,
embody it and pass through.