What washes up in the forest is no less
a wonder that the flotsam of oceans.
Take this skeleton of an upturned ark
stranded among a reach of ash trees,
beached in leaf litter, its ribs and spars
secured by a rigging of twiggy larch,
tangles of plaited honeysuckle, all
leaning in as though wanting to give ear
to silence, breath the wood's cool must.
Some Crusoe surely built this, laid limbs
against a fallen ridgepole, woven vines
and brushwood spread out a bed of brash,
learned how stillness is a state of mind,
here where things slither, drip and flinch.
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