With my head in position that butterfly wing
is the shadow of a line of grass -
just there the bone of a fallen thistle,
a boot hook. Coming up
the pink of my legs went cobweb,
an unnecessary detail. This space is where
I wrote for fun with the point of a straw,
the brushing of the air a few inches up,
no ink or sound or colour for.
Those fields falling over themselves
are going to miss it, the touch
of a spider climbing my shoulder,
the red-tinged clover,
spilled tea shadows,
purple flowers as they tick tock tick.

From Accidental Fruit, Worple Press (2016).