I try to write about nature

I try to write about nature.

I try to write about nature. I sit in it.
And later, when I sit at my computer with its golden hour view, my phone vibrates –
the PlantSnap app with a fun plant fact.

I try to write about nature. I stay inside.
And the storm wheels about us. I hush him.
We go to find the other one downstairs as a bolt cracks bright at the window.
It took out the telegraph pole. Nine days no net. No TV.

I try to write about nature. Do I like it? Do I feel it?
Perhaps the idea is better than the dirt and the wetness, sticky sap and thorns,
mud-boots and scattered seeds on my cream carpets.

I try to write about nature. But the mould creeps up my walls again.
The petals fall off and I forget to change the vase water.
Woodlice evictions and sometime slugs.
And now the ants in a honey-scurry on tops and sills.

I try to write about nature. I am not equipped for it.
I prefer it in books and perfect photographs –
Nature without labour, without its bodilyness and messiness.

I try to write about nature. There was a heron on the roof
Opposite our house. But the pond fish has long gone.
I told him it had moved house.
Upped-pump and left.

I try to write about nature. More rain
no, more rain. No.
It’s all very well for you, welly-boots.

I try to write to nature. But I don’t know how.
I don’t know why. Why not.
Is it trying to write to me?

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