I long for the forests that once covered these islands, whose cover darkened the ground and sheltered those underneath from rain.
I despair over the concrete scars etched into the body of these islands, who lead only to the sacrificial temples of a cult of dead matter, with the rotting carcasses of those who couldn’t get away in time.
I love the cliff and the seemingly endless expanse of blue sea, the force of the wind and the motion of the sea.
Spring equinox has passed by, an event marked by the expectation of repetition.
That’s all a year is, the expectation of the return in the circular movement.
But we are outside of expectations in our poverty of return, and each marker is hotter and hotter and hotter.
And I still long for the forest and enjoy the woods when I can.
I long for the company of beasts who’s honesty is unfettered.
I find wildness in bird song, the wind and the rain.