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Spring Left
A Wake

As water fell from the sky, the woodland floor started to swell and rise, as if the rain was pouring green. A tide of verdancy surged upwards, drawn by the light and propelled by the liquid so much so that one could mistake the trickling stems for an extension of water.

Spring is only satisfied when it’s overflowing and bursting onto and over itself. From its first leaks spring puddles of green. They collect and grow and pool together to form ponds that flow still further until they meet the tumbling hedgerows. Sprays of hawthorn blossom crest them like the spindrift of immense white horses, while cow parsley froths like Spring left a wake.

From the woodland floor seeps a rising tide of stingers, doc leaves, jack by the hedge and dead nettle, who catch the wind in such a way that waves are created across their surface, the swells submerging a flowing intricacy of currents, the tubular pathways of underwater creatures swimming in the Spring sea beds.

Spring’s outpouring sinks the thickets and spills out into the gaping meadows, expansive viridescent oceans with butter cups sparkling like wavelets caught dancing in the sunlight, and the trees, like huge sailed galleons, swaying gently on the horizon.

With love at Beltane.

Matt Witt 01/05/2020

Matt Witt

Author Matt Witt

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