White fur flashes across the farmyard fence
Submerging in the verdant sea
                   we must let go.

Let me mourn the uninterrupted fields,
Dream of the days when crops should roll in uniform waves,
                  windmills turn over the same grain.

Willow trees divide the land like schoolboys in a row
Leaning, swaggering, splitting open with laughter under unkempt branches,
                   they break the line.

Let go of the quiet amusement of socks ochre as the rapeseed,
Patches of a quilt sewn by steel oxen
                  too heavy for the worms.

Sticky fingers make blue heaven real,
Betray the glass by marking it with child's play,
                  easing me into what must come. 

As this old farming village moltens,
A bench sags like a worn row of teeth grinning at the dandelions
                     we can trust when we are gone.

On a morning walk in the old farming village of Tånebro in Skåne, Sweden.

In the beginning there were the trillions,
                            mutations, coincidences,
Wild horses bucking 
                            formlessly, randomly,
Mouse ears in newly minted green, 
                            stronger than all of them put together.

God was the patient husk
                            that fell away,
A revelation that cannot be transmitted,
                            only transmuted.

The boundaries of my being fade,
                             bleached by the high sun,
Without cause or consequence,
                             the present opens
Into deepest, deepest now
                             A swirl of past and future.

On walking through the birch in early May.