Nicole Page-Smith, photographs
Are we forest in the trees?
Trees grow. They grow into the house and the church could tell you so. Branches, branch out, grow, grow through, growing, fly with the birds, extended with the blossom. The blossom falling to the ground, scatters and trees and new shoots, travel along. Eventually overgrown trees need tending and tending need to grow. Forests occur as the result of trees.
Forests of trees. Trees, once were forest with the birds. Light filters through. Trees. Trees with snaky thoughts of sunning in sunspots, hibernating in rainforests.
Snakes, snake around your mind slithering off from their sunny spots come Spring, back into the forest. The light of summer. Your hair goes into Rastafarian, snaky, dreadlocks like a Medusa. Tread carefully through the forest and loudly. Lizards scurry and the birds chirp, flying away. The trees wake up from their winter sleep and move around in the wind. Light and sun, peers, through and as though sprites of the night have passed by seem to rattle and moan, groaning of another night, in the daylight. Medusa would not know such a snaky address but ghosts travel through as though knowing another history or place. Are we forest in the trees?
