No - the other sort |
Dank, damp and dirty beneath the trees brambles, their pale thin and yellow tender young shoots unfurl, their soft barbs, stiffening, to chlorophyll completeness they sharpen, shred, coil and strangle spread, tangled and tough, thrusting through the undergrowth, forceful vegetative and violent. Shy ferns, fetus folded, origami unfurl with Fibonacci perfection, each frond flung out to fill the forest floor. In green gloom of tree-born twilight, fungi swell, bulbous, slick and slimy amid the mild, moist moss, a soft mattress woven like some massive plate of vermicelli, spotted with the shells of small snails. Suspended on skilful silk, draped betwixt the stems of nettles and dock a spider shivers amid the soaking shine of countless glistening globes that bedeck her consummate creation, jewelled eyes reflecting the myriad beads about her. Testing the tension, deadly centrepiece, Prettier than any precious stone. Writhing, hunting and hiding, in the rich mulch of leaves and plant debris in various states of decay, kilometripedal creatures, both centi and milli, coiled, coy and colourful, they mingle with a secretive menagerie of woodlice, worms and a multitude of midges, mites and small flies, all living the low-life, beneath the trees. |