It was a silent thing. Only the breeze spoke.

Whatever lives below the ground moves in half time

feeling around dark sleeping worlds

seeing with gentle stroke

a snail shell

jostling spores

small leftovers of birth – the half worm, germ, miniature stone

note the radicles’ stretch, pulsing through ice cold turf

past leaves becoming life, towards dead rock

turning over still clay

turning over April fields