They live in the boles of trees,
squeezing through holes at the base,
where roots gnarl over-ground,
catching dying leaves, winged seeds,
the spore of fungi,
the hairs of insects’ legs
in pools of rain-showers.
where tendrils drip and feel
into the moist earth,
whittling at fallen branches,
gouging wood into the shape of plant-pots
with elfin faces, green men coughing out
sculpting the birth of trees.
Their tools are sharpened stones,
bodkin-sharp bones of squirrel and fox.
The miracle is
how they get to markets unseen,
sell their likenesses for pence,
capture the imagination of someone like me.
Derby City Poets