An itinerant treads through the fields in London, Wales and England, picking through the debris of a culture war, heading back home to the north. They record the thoughts of objects and see the others talking and gesturing, haunted by visions and dreams of the past and future. The field repeats, each time slightly differently. In each field a different assemblage – maybe a castle, or a festival, or a bird
The Tree says “Down! – you
seeds and sapling usurpers
“I am the root and I the purpose
“know my bark, it keeps me strong.”
and murders them with shadows long.
The saplings and the seeds chant –
“Up! – the republic of growth
“of branching ideas, and new things here below
“until the wood is filled with variety
“old bark can stay – but we’ll have our society.”
Some hope to spark, to get underway
the fire, the ashes, it tends to gestate
grand ideas of a sunlit glade –
though dappled light seems the best some can await –
Born as they are with stunted branch
or lack of structured niche or dance –
they tend to fall back on the law of the light –
that when shadow is cast, those in shadow must fight.
Either starving dark among the shoots
or taking as model the climbing vine
or cutting the old bark down to size
or grouping and starving the heartless old roots
to scatter light out from the leaves of the few.