The Pull

A story of a yearning in a few leaves

Nostalgia is not only chocolate milk. There are mysterious moments in childhood, when exploration into, and discovery of nature becomes a personal revelation, or there ought to be. Sometimes Wild Horses, as Mick and the Stones sung, should drag you away. The urge to concrete our existence, then fence it off, to uproot trees from gardens and pot the plants has padded our existence with plastic and game show prizes, and history then becomes something Netflix invented.

I am not able to be a fan of over-fertilised, over-beautified gardens, clipped until fully-controlled, nary a leaf out of place like a Swiss clinic with cloned flowers of every colour hanging daintily and obediantly from window sills.

There is another urge, coming soon, not to your cinemas but to the countrysides, and cities too, to the urge to rewild. Now we’re talking.

left alone
she still pulls
my forest—