This world belongs to the plants, the trees, the shrubs, the algae bubbling along consuming swathes of pollution and microplastics that prove it was wrong to entrust the Earth to us.
Written a ton about trees and nature lately, but you know what? It feels right to think about the swaying branches of a weeping willow hiding the lost, beneath leaves of armour.
It feels good to imagine empty fields of tall green grass, gently bobbing like fans of a prog rock festival, reflecting the sun and swishing calmly all around you.
Picture yourself on the top of a hill, picture the rolling mounds around you, no buildings nor roads, nor towering blocks of cement and concrete. You, plants, the occasional tree, in all directions, sun coats all, sky as blue as the sea from a child’s picture book, with the barest wisps of white dancing above.
You are propped up on haunches, the grass soft and lush and bouncy, your body being held by angels of soil, and the fields shine in hues so pleasing, that frantic frenzied energy leaves your body. You lay all the way down, the grass containing you, and when time has passed so fleetingly, you return to the real paradise promised.