Mushrooms For Tea (revised 2019)

First, faint scrawls of night's black spell      
collect in this line of trees,                   

Woods' entrance a shadow O :              
my path, familiar, changes                
as a chant must each time, sung.           

An alchemist's dream come true -   
yesterday the leaves grew, green    
yet now heavy-hang as gold           
in thickets meshed, where toadstools  -    
ink illumined letters, gleam    

wet, still, a vast hushed throng, sprung     
through moist Autumn's softened page -  
scarlet fly agarics, white     
spotted, witches’ broomsticks’ fire   
and fawn, spongy penny buns;   
brown roll rims chaliced morning-  
rain, light rimmed in the gloom and    
puffballs pregnant with spore smoke -   
which as a child I’d quest for -
finding, stomp on, make a wish.

Cold sky arcs over, a scroll    
uncurling. I feel  Now
burst in me, as if the sky’s here   
in my heart, and all about
words fill space unheard, unseen.   

Distracted, I almost miss   
a cluster of ink caps – they   
thrive on rubbish tips and graves,  
yet good to eat, steaming hot,
black juices of transience.  

Old Manuscripts were written
in these oozings, hence the name.
These days foragers come
from London – the elite
will pay fortunes for a taste,

This flesh mixing sentience    
and plant embodies silence.
I stoop, grip, pull one, ghost-pale
as Persephone’s finger
when she was new from Hades...

feel : cool-clammy : a sister    
in my hand ;  I pick four more.    
An aeroplane flies over   
lights blazing, too high for sound
(Once I’d thought them shooting stars)   

You say I should get out more?   
(Why? Reality tames dreams)  
I think of you. That you speak   
to me is unnatural
ought not
    to be;
        Magical

I, trailing spores like omens
take them home for tea, lightly
touching as I can, knowing
ink caps held too tightly
vanish, as, I fear, will you