This is my poem for Paul Brookes’ ekphrastic challenge. To see the artwork and read the poetry, please visit his blog here.

Pre-history

The forest is so old, so green,
sometimes it seems to encroach,
crouch in its green skirts, limbs hid,
and birds flit like flies,
old stone flakes into slippery slabs
and our feet find no purchase

~moss being of the time before history~

the forest did not grow for us,
has no use for us.
We try to catch falling blossom
snatched by the wind,
find only discarded feathers
we gather like treasures.