Reaching, unthinking, I run my handAgainst the grainCatching fragments, taking passengersSharp delvers, of the greater wholeThough not of my aimingStill finding their markIn meA map, or suggestionNeedle-sharp in fleshThat should not yieldYet sometimes welcomesAnd meldsScrap and remnantSliver and crumbBlood and sapBone and seedSo that gradually, so slowlyAnd slightAs if barely noticingA solitary stem may rise from the throatThen branching, reaching, unthinkingRaise blooms to the sunAnd roots to the soilBelow. -- Written, recorded and produced by Oliver Barrett, 2018-2024