to quiver as a walker approaches

you'll need far less solids than milk

​

​

dabbed in fluffy clouds like the bog cotton

in your drifts swaying across the known moor

​

sour berries burnt and crunched with your toes

black and buried in the bog up to their necks

 

brimming with sprinkled micro fossils

buried in a layered rock of time

 

powdering fluff travelling through

the richness the bitter, caught in tiny silt traps

 

nibs seeds  been crunches  little lifes

trampling pressure also becomes significant

 

families of jams, pools

sweetness delving into the darkness of your eye

 

creamy green nut pooling in hollows

the earth and the grain

 

with a crumb

soggy like the submerged bogbean

 

islands, and maybe a hill of the round sun

rich and mossy makes only one mantle

 

with the saltiness extra

it's just in the grit of it, nestled in your soft dark

​

enmired in a bog, blanketed

whilst the sky closes its eyelids on the land