Delicate forms ring out in the mist,
dawn woodland, a blush and grey pink
sighing of spores released into time,
the break into song, slowly unveiling,
angelus in the morning – the ink caps
and ceps rub shoulders with forests
of ceramic mushrooms, made into bells,
the singing stalks hang mid-air, ropes
for campanologists, holding a note,
a mystical tone that might play out
at a Buddhist retreat or high
Tibetan temple, recall that peace
in the dead air of a gallery, without
the charm of birdsong, woodpecker bright,
song thrush or swift to hide from the light,
far from the canopy they mimic, where
a mushroom crowd might serve
summons to a dryad, tree elf or fairy,
here turned into a service of bell capped
Buddhas, waiting, trapped
in the bonnets of a Victorian story,
mushrooms made into stone bells, some spell
stands their stalks and stilling, the long fine ropes
sing soft in the gallery tower, so time is told, time
is marshalled and called, as the bell hits the hour.
Poem by Sarah Wallis
Sarah is a poet and playwright, based in Scotland. You can find recent work at Lunate, Fly on the Wall Press (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dmNkjH4yOGI ) and Slackline Cyberstories (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eHJDN53FLWs ) or see sarahwallis.net