I touch —
gently —
the traces of breath
clinging to the veil of glass.
Dreams leak slow,
soft as smoke,
caught in the trembling skin
of their own mystery.
The delicate suspension shivers,
then falls —
a blade of light
splitting the wound.
Beyond gray bone —
sky, tree, shadow —
a black nerve pulses, exposed.
Ghosts scatter
at the sharp edge
of a careful, careful touch.
I awake —
and the mist parts,
just enough
to let the world through.
My regular dog walks in Middleton Woods near home are always an inspiration. At this time of year, the leaves are turning, and the earth is full of fungi. It’s a time to reflect on the cycle of life and death — in fact, nothing truly dies; it simply moves on, transforms.
In the last few days, I heard a wonderful talk by comedian Alan Davies at the Ilkley Literature Festival. When writing his autobiography, he said he realised it wasn’t about writing down what he knew, but about revealing what was unknown. That idea was, in a way, echoed by Iraqi exile Mohammed Sami, whose work I saw at the Turner Prize exhibition. He said, “The things I articulate in my artwork are memories hidden in the brain cells that are waiting for a trigger.”
The idea of writing a biography is daunting, but in a way, all artwork is autobiographical. So, I am becoming more mindful of how these personal elements are reflected in our work.
Recently, I followed an old stone path until I found myself slightly lost — and here’s a poem that grew out of that experience.
Boot soles press the forest spine,
stone worn slick by hoof, paw, claw.
Pilgrims pass—children, dogs,
ancient traders long since gone
Sunlight pierces oak ribs high,
warms the dark, wet earth to stir.
A breath of mould, of sweetness, rises—
death weaving its quiet magic here.
The dying shines brighter than the living.
Light seeps slow, a golden tide,
ghosts of leaf and root stir beneath.
Above, green dims… then flares,
a singing of leaves,
their final hue a requiem of hope.
The congregation rises:
roots, fungi, worms,
whispers threading branch to branch.
Balance hangs, held like a breath,
waiting… before the storm ignites.
And suddenly, the path is gone.
I stand unmade,
between the known and the unknown,
between the hand and what reaches for it.
This is the law:
the tame unravels,
the bright turns strange,
the heart cracks open to its echo.
The forest leans close, breathing.
It will take me—
bone, bark, and name—
back into its ancient life.
Beneath the leaves,
beneath the leaves,
the future waits,
silent, patient, eternal.
© Mark Waddington 2025
Mark Waddington 