The hills and stones are drunker than us.
Someone spilled a thousand rolls of green velvet
at a party of rocks. We walk over them
and through the glissading stream with our
clompy boots and tupperware.
We’re mushroom hunting on the fells.
It’s like trying to spot a bird in a blizzard.
You have to tune in. There! Look!
Tiny freckles on the hill’s skin.
We boil, fry, make tea to get them down.
Our stomachs fizz as new perceptions kick in.
More dimensions than usual.
The standing stones are having a laugh.
New eyes open. We cry with pleasure
when the sun sets like concrete.
Later, someone is snoring Mendelssohn.
The stars are edible and slightly acidic.
The fire ambers then greys. In the morning
the miserable comedown is just the return
of normality, the stones
once more fallen silent.