I hang in the spaces between canopies

and when I pause for breath it hits me -

the total silence. Even my mental chatter

vanishes. Just me and these ancient beings

and the rain they filter from the fog

dripping on my glistening skin.

I glide in a wordless mist. All that holds me

to the spinning planet is a little rope.

I start to soar as if the needles sprouted feathers,

my muscles tensed for flight. And when I land

it’s on a hanging garden of fern-mats

ninety metres high, to kneel on its altar.

Every dip into the chalice of a sky pool

yields an unknown species. Everything is dawn-new.