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.

A woman’s.

Raised, slightly bent, mid-horse-trot.

Ruddy-rose skin.

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.

Her foot

Hard rooted

to the



No longer able to step,