The forest calls out from its still centre to the leaf of the book  that came from its heart, in the silent scream of a shared creative agony

 

The white space

Is like a still lake

Undiscovered in

An emerald grove,

Its silence borne

From the depths

Of a forest

From which

It was torn –

The screams

Of death

Unuttered

But smothered

In our factories

And gathered

Into pages

Waiting to be

Ruffled into

Ripples that will

Shatter the surface

And reveal

The secret

Of sighs

Of rustling leaves,

The shooting

Desires of tendrils,

The wisdom

Of the dark bark

And the ambition

Of branches

Waiting to find

A voice to spill

Over and fill

The white space.