Wood Anemone
Between the trees dust shifts,
light fractures like a prism.
A cathedral silence greens the air.
The soil smells of damp books.
I see them — paper-thin,
spreading on the dark floor of the wood.
Still as a shut door.
Nothing moves —
not the nettles,
not even a rumour
of someone once there.
A nudge of wind tips
each flower cup.
They twitch, then settle …
like sleeves lined with lullabies.
White flicker. Then nothing.
No miracle. No change.
Just wind.
Just petals.
Just the usual business of vanishing —
a dry kind of wanting.