Buch book beech Buche
He stretches very tall, shades everything.
Wood anemones live their starry lives quickly
on the bare forest floor, offer their brightness
to sunlight filtered by empty branches.
Remember that beech in Calder Wood? the one
with a teapot arm, where the branch
grew back into the trunk? and another, host to
beefsteak fungus dissolving its pale heart?
Crunch on beech mast, Autumn mornings.
No pigs here to root among its bounty,
to wallow in the pond formed
where a giant blew down, rotted.
He’s grey, smooth talking, an academic
who knows his subject, maybe too well.
He’s thrifty, holds papery leaves through winter.
Plank him, plane him, print from him.