running with my hands full of apples, i know my muscles are made of Chiltern clay. when i take my shoes off and enter the village church, and feel my bare feet on the carpeted aisle, it reminds me of the delicate orange floor—— the woods' sprawling orange chapel that makes sure i know it is a living thing, as i run the length of it's corridors, it's little creatures taking to the skies and up the trunks of trees. when i reach the high points, and look out across it's roof, i see a hundred tiles, in all manner of auburn, and i know autumn is burning with a dry and biding heat, waiting for us all.

sheep appear like sentient fog spawn, a fog so heavy the trees are dripping with it. drops fall on my skin and let me know i'm here, not adrift in the thick folds, like all else around me.

i scare birds i don't know the names of and they take flight — scaring leaves from trees they don't know the names of. black wings sworl and orange darts flutter free to match the thoughts loosed from my head an emptiness that knows the silent name of nothing.

the ocean claws back at the land, beckoned by the sky above it, a wild seriousness in it's mind. soon the sun will win out as it always does, and return us to the eternal summering of the world, where each blade of grass seizes upon a glint of sunlight, feasting on it's reflected peace, and all that graveness threatened, is but a light-hearted play.

god sleeps in the church ruins of St. Giles, where my skin is a filth of mud and sweat, yet the stone recognises pureness underneath. 'god is love' etched above the door at St. Gabriels, a love quiet—— but still audible, in whispers beneath the thoughtless roar of the A-road. St. Candida heals my eyes by looking upon her shrine, i no longer see past the flaws, of the world—— i see not flaws.

the sun sets to work unveiling the world, stripping the mist to reveal a giant apple, gentle folds down the valley, that lead to the stalk. soft fur with a dew coat, my feet sweep it clean, pick up the dew, i am becoming the apple. pick up the smaller apples and put them to my mouth, ——i become the apple. the church is closed to me, the apple tree will have to do.

my body lightens, floating down the ridgeline, my mind takes leave of me, light on the wind, spores aloft above the valley, of my inner landscape, settle where it will, take root on the lung, breathe the light, and catch the air.

the light sits scattered through the trees, sliced to pieces by my strafing vision. it hangs floating in the mist over the wier, distracted— set loose from it's intention. like each smile sent out into the world, was born of a decision, for which i am grateful, as it doesn't always know where it will land. but will surely lie waiting, if it finds no one to receive it right away.

how long has this path cut through these trees? superhighway of the soul, expressway of the earth. did romans really march here? where now are people walking dogs, and me running as fast as i can, trying to summon something older and something deeper than myself. i meet a dog who looks as old as that, leakage matts the fur beneath his eyes, that look as if they're barely holding in there, as he lumbers at me, slow as timber, a living tree with in it's mind to smell me.

there is a pearl at the heart of road running, upon which i focus, and with my legs enact a ceaseless whittle. with each pace i am closer to the pure form, until it—— and only it remains, my body and my mind cast aside.

for when you chance upon them and they do not see you you are intruders in a world of stillness read plainly in their black branches a power and a potency that moving mortals could never match

3 heralds on a hilltop under a soft orange light that glows through the misted clouds i can almost see their arms aloft like i can almost see the soul of the grass glittering in cold dew and promising there is always more to them than what we see

a hundred birds take flight afront the rock strewn hillside spatters of white blend as if the hill is coming alive and breaking free of itself

in the early evening it was the sky caught between a halycon orange and a vespering blue and the birds singing a town of joyous villagers awoken to the false news of the suns bountiful harvest that made me think i could strip off my clothes and bathe in the glow of the full moon until my own breath in curdled crisps upon my beard made me realise the warmth was in my motion and not the stillness of the moon that gives no warmth a recalcitrant king of shopfront neon cold, and un-nourishing so ignorant of my wonder so callous to my reverence and still... i'm a sucker for the glow

did i run past a witch of the modern night? who holds a phone close to her face, her connection to the ether, erupting in a cackle, as a winding breath of steam crawls from the building above her, and snakes into the sky. and to the moon, who is out in full force, with it's underlings the icy stars, and low-hanging clouds that lurk, reflected in the speckled ground, sparkling with crystals, rapt in the path of two red eyes lit up behind a fog blanketed street, as bright as tail-lights turned toward me, slowly approaching, snarling, and breathing hot exhaust fumes.

the winter holds me —— in contented isolation, the colours of my being —— holstered from grey world. when spring comes —— i shall empty myself and escape, but for now —— i find peace in separation.

i went by the derelict shopping precinct as it was being worked upon by the machines of demolition. slowly torn to rubble by a scrupulous metal claw. i'd always harbored a faint attachment to the building, the grass growing out the roof, graffiti decorating the courtyard walls. many times i'd walked in it's pebbledash palms and felt there was still growth in it. maybe some benevolent regeneration lay in it's future yet. but no. and on i go. to forget about it eventually. when it's no longer there to remind me of itself.

so much time spent jumping between my two legs seeking something in that weightless gap—— the magic twilight in the moment between night and day the actual human that lies between angel and devil the act that connects the creature and creator. and for that moment i am lifted—— hanging halfway between the earth and the skies, where i have a fair and even view to see them both—— i can catch a glimpse of truth.

the ground reluctant to release me each step loaded with an imploration to stay close—— always in it's grasp

the sun-baked speedway sings, unsheathed from mud or frost, now means, again the song of the rootbard rings.

on thighs fat as a farmer's finger.

i ran past the cows, and stood atop stonebarrow hill, looking down at the sea, with the sun breaking through the clouds, illuminating it from here to the horizon, in subtly shifting patches, cowhide shapes on the waves, that blew themselves, like tiny hairs.

to tread so lightly the world will not perceive me, though i know this cannot truly be—— when stained by my own perception but yet—— if i tread light enough perhaps even that i can escape.

to feel her warm breath upon me, the sweet smell of fermented grass, rushing, like the waves of grass, on which float the bouncing bunnies, and fleeting foxes, quick as rays of sunlight, that trace the crows delighted swoop amongst the green of the green, green trees.

that haunt streams of light, and protect the forest air, from my jaunt among the trees. the hard earth offers nothing, in the way of softened plunder, to my marauding feet, that peel a dryest thunder.

the sky and the wind held a horror, that i saw reflected in the ashen faces and wide eyes of those who'd seen the accident. and in the fierce waves that bit chunks from the coast, yet the boys—— half-human or half-seal, leapt from the harbour walls and glided in-and-out of the water like it could hold nothing but playful intention.

a summer i shall cherish, for though it will return again, it will be a different summer, and i—— a different person.

The morning mist was a living thing, painting the spider webs that hung from trees and bushes, with droplets, bringing to light the night's delicate work. Fog horns and bells sounding from within, the birds calling out to waves that spoke back with soft, gutteral noises.

the evening light like pink thread weaved into the air, over water so still it lets a silver film of life hang there on the surface, watching me, and everything else that surrounds it.

the morning is fresh, and steam rises around me, from my hunched body, crouched in a tree-clearing, to inspect a ring of pearly trumpets, mushrooms sprouting, from a carpet of leaves. they sound silent peals, that prick the ears of my animal self, a song of the deep earth, that longs to be eaten. i pluck them, and feel the pop of satisfaction, as they're loosed from the ground, to experience life on legs.

the world had stopped it's turning long enought to be quiet for the lambs to whisper their secrets in my ear in a language i can't quite understand the hot breath of a ruminant life stinking of old grass

and with each kiss, i knew it better, some new aspect revealed, in expressions of the mud.

barely taller than the furrows and the young crop, and as i approached, wondering who it could be in this draped cape and glowing hat, at this time of darkened night, he opened his cape, jumped up and flew right at me! i screamed in terror, before realising it was only a bird, taking flight at the sight of me.

in the green tunnels of the earth, where the smell of wild garlic lingers in my nose, the sun looks for me, hawklike, thirsty for the sweat it's brought about on my skin, that glints as i dart between tree cover, moving like some mouse or vole.

there's nothing quite like the feeling of getting to run—— really run after hobbling along the trails for so long. like your legs and arms are bone handles, inflating the billows of your lungs, cranking you—— floating you on, in search of something you can only find in the particular act of moving in this way. when you're up to this speed where you feel like you could run forever, like you've fallen into step with the world itself.

i must thank whatever force has healed me, soothed the gremlin that took up residence in my calf, so many months ago. though i still feel it in there, i can run long and far again, it's ill intent now lifted. it lets me feel it's possible for every jaunt out in the world to feel somehow better than the last? whatever's with me now, powering me on this ever-upwards trajectory, i'm immensely grateful for it. the world looked as beautiful today as i felt within, the air still as cows, 'til they were running with me. footways winding through trees and open grass, caught right in the sweet spot of autumn—— oranges, yellows, greens, on the same tree, on the same leaf even.