Huon Valley, Tasmania
I never knew that the light here was painted water, mirror
silver and so very gentle. Not the brittle glare of home.
We are moss and mud and loam and tubers. We are just
skin. In forest gloom and rain kiss, we are naked bright
we are slipping barefoot deep and the moss will grow over
we are cum and blood and rain and mucus. We are water.
I am yours no more than the forest is ours, yet I’m steeped
in eucalyptus water and our blood from the leeches. And
so I am your dryad. I am your dear muddy girl. Mired to you.