Field of Trees I’m away to the wood she shows off her green; Horse Chestnut offers fingers gloved in lime, Beech and Ash flutter a thousand butterflies, Oak reveals just a glimpse of her gown, Hawthorn clasps blossom, tight buds of May, Bluebell opens her arc petal by petal, her song arising a haze of eyes.
Oh, to Be. Petals hold stern as bumble reaches, dainty limbs forage. She feels a tender glare, sucks in at possibility - a darted death. She wants to take bee from its bower of pollen gluttony, close her fingers about its freedom. She wishes to sup in meadows of wild mists, fly alone through avenues of foxgloves, meet a mate with huge dark goggles, a flashy coat, lie curled against him. © Anna Chorlton 2020
Silver Y Arriving a slow, fluttering bloom of heavy wings, Silver Y settles beneath nettle edges, bramble jewels. Her cloak a layered bark; striking hooks of silver, inner flutes in navy, petticoat edged with lemon, glides - - alights crouches on birch, spider legs splayed, silent as summer. © Anna Chorlton 2020