In a world without paper
there are no trees
no roots
no tattoos
no love
no ink.

My family walks
  up the steep hill of Brechfa forest
    sandwiches and thermos flask
      in my rucksack.
Rainbow on Akole's back
  Reece runs ahead exploring
      the green cathedral of
        Llanfihangel Rhos Y Corn.
My right eye watches the children
  as my left eye counts
    the habitats
      through a scientific lens.

    Long lived oaks
          slowly grow sturdy hardwood
          invest in the future.
    Hurried hazel
          sprouts and fruits
          feed fleeting squirrels.
    Sad willows bow
          weeping branches
          weave and heal.
    Feathered ash
          grows bark
          houses soft damp moss.
    Deep birch roots
          draw goodness
          recycles minerals.
    Elderly elms
          die from the Dutch pandemic
          dinner for insects and mushrooms.
    Early bluebells’
          royal blue carpet
          welcomes the spring,
    while musky fungi
          extend their network of decay
          repurpose brown leaves.
    Tall pine trees’
          resinous smell
          poisons competition.
    Among woodland's
          gothic arches
          there are many niches
    and even
          in a coniferous forest
          ants build hills.

We sit on a brown earth bank
  take out our picnic.
I stop counting habitats
  to share out
    chocolate biscuits.

There is dust on
the wall.
I watch it hang in
little wisps.
I’m distracted by  
everything.
All of it.
The small and large
items of life have me
chasing my tail, and avoiding  
the pen.

I postpone writing, like I’m
ending a bad relationship.
I avoid the tough
conversation.
I dance with impotence and
procrastination, like they are
lovely women.

I need to write.
I must create.
But there is an  
antagonist at work in the
trivial details of my
existence.
It smells like copper.
It hides the ink from  
my mind.

It would rather I do
anything else:
promote
market
*******
dream
sleep
eat
watch TV
or sometimes,
just stare at the
dust on the wall.

When I was
younger,
I had to learn.
Sit and wait to
write.
I  would get
impatient and force it.
If you read it,
you could tell.

Now I’m quite a bit older, and
I quit trying.
Fodder seems to be
everywhere.
I can write about
the most mundane
things.

Today I’m at the
library waiting for my
girlfriend to
finish up at the dentist.
She’s getting her
teeth cleaned.
All my drinking ruined
my teeth.
When I got them
pulled a year ago,
there wasn’t a
healthy tooth in my head.
I have dentures now, so
I don’t have to
worry about how much I drink.
I know this isn’t a
good poem, but
hey,
there she is
all shiny and bright…
and sober.