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For days I have drawn fern - shaped lines in the absence of words. Criss - cross stalk and petals made me believe words were to attain from leafy cartoons. Ferns dipped in gloam green stains and titled 'Fern du Lac', dotted. I buried them in the back garden, below the brown - veined plum tree, for they neither proffessed nor proved anything. One would pass clay clear mornings, mist lit noons, afternoons of pink flush, moth buzzing nights and start again. I passed and paled in between, with one thought beating in mind: my dreams rest in fern, moss and lichen. What was its spring, soil and root? How did it own, mingle, obscure, confuse, diffuse and use me? It kept silence, and silence reinforced dreams and gave form. When in possession of form, I reached for meaning and wouldn't break.
Isabel May 2019
I was very pleased to find
A fungus that sometimes (not always)
May contain algae
And so may be described
As partially lichenised

So when I can't make up my mind
I am just evolving me
I'm not divided
Only naturalised
Just as the lichen climbs up on the tree,
So too does she grow further on me
lichen shrouded logs
laid still on the forest's floor
their bones rotting
Conor Letham Aug 2014
froths in lichen:
gushing on its bark,
it looks like pollen
was smeared on in
yellow gouache,
ulcers spread to lick
on to each branch.

I let it take over
in the way you
spread your arms
over bed and torso,
in the way your kiss
through the mornings
paint my cheeks red.

— The End —