What if, when I wrote, I was to infuse the sheet of paper with the star freckled galaxy? What if I poured the seas into my pen? And made every mark on the page, the scratch of a lion’s claw? What if, in the capital letter, was the howling of wolves? In the underline the mole tunnelling? In the flow of words the swimming of dolphins? In the comma the river whirling round rocks? In the speech marks the tweeting of birds? In the full stop the grunt of a boar?
Read MoreHunting for Mushrooms
in conversations, nature
We head into the dark centre of the forest, where even the intense sunlight of Southern France can only sometimes penetrate, freckling the ground. The tall, skinny pines wave wildly in the wind. Underfoot is a spongy layer of pines cones, decaying leaves and the bristling shells of last year’s chestnuts. Everything is mud brown, except the swathes of green ferns that fill the clean mountain air with a smell like freshly cut grass.
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