Search Party
Damp October grass left watercolour
Brush strokes on my grey Golas
As the path retreated behind us like a shrinking quayside.
We scouted the undergrowth like a crime-scene
Armed with pictures from a stranger’s Instagram,
Placing earthen jigsaw pieces together clumsily,
Tripping over roots in search of clues.
I directed you to where the soil looked most fertile,
Thick and manure-like, gilded with insects
Teeming under bark, living richly;
We found nothing save contorted beer cans
And ash coloured bricks—evidence of clandestine meetings.
We split up, crows blackening branches and
Surveying the ground for vulnerable life while
Time-travelling worms transcended
Into the blue expanse.
Sometime later, you called me over,
Head bowed in reverence
Above innocuous birch-shadowed grass,
Pointing at the red plume rising up otherworldly,
Deep and planetary amidst the everyday.
Polka dots hinted at the cosmic contained within
As we wondered how anyone could miss it?
We wondered how anything so alien could grow here.
Shielding its body from dogs and their walkers,
We captured the rarity from every possible angle,
Demystifying it for social media.
When the time came to leave I imagined a child
Kicking it cricket-ball-like into the void,
While others scroll passed thoughtlessly.
In a year’s time we would return,
Forgetful of its splendour.
Henry Wilkinson is a South London based writer, poet, and former music journalist. His writing is influenced by alternative music and culture, lo-fi aesthetics, gothic literature, and Moby-Dick.