Do men hunt for mushrooms alone?
Do their senses wander unhindered over boletes, puffballs, brittlegills?
Or do they prowl like we do, ears pricked, eyes sharp, scanning bark but also the path,
delving into leaflitter, birdsong, decay – but not too deep
just enough so that we still hear the cracking of sticks, footsteps behind us.
Maintain awareness – there's no slipping into peace, there’s no letting go
even though I can name them all, ID them from scales and spores, could get carried away
I know that if I went a little further into the trees, I might find more -
but I mustn't stray. I've texted my location, if I lose my way, it’s my own fault.
I must stick to the track, not venture off into bracken and thicket, but oh the temptation -
there could be agaric, coral spot, wood ear, stinkhorns.
Someone approaches and I feel myself tense, evaluate my surroundings
plan an escape, but he says hello and I relax again -
in this dampness, darkness he can thrive, could dive into leaves if he wanted,
lose all sense of awareness, bung up his head with mulch, just him and the wood’s silence, a space away from the violence of the everyday, not an ounce of fear
just solace. Nature.
Does he realise, does he realise the freedom he has, does he realise quite how much I hope for that?