A Surrealist Painting
You can’t see the forest for the foot:
Yet it’s all crystal-clear, chandelier.
Soil spreads out like a blanket.
Cushioning and deeply brown: tobacco.
And the little shrubby flowers:
They are small and shrill and painted the colour of candy-canes,
See them; singing for a glance.
And the blue, bruised shadows loom from behind
Yet the foot. The foot shines through.
Raised, slightly bent, mid-horse-trot.
And those toes...
Now there’s something new.
Gnarled; not from wear.
Wooden; not from substance.
A tree’s roots are sprouting from her foot.
They stretch out and down,
A living tree billowing from her.
No longer able to step,