they are my skin-cut tools
cracked as dried earth
I trust them, they lead me.
I listen to the passive witness
of stones, their dialogue with trees,
learn how they rely on each other.
I need the energy of peat — the melt of mud
and mineral feed and sheep’s urine on canvas.
Above all I love my icicles — reconstructed,
glued with my spit or draped like lobster
claws and oysters on a plate of river ice.
I square black-rooted bracken stalks
thorn-pin chestnut leaves into floating
snake ribbons until surfaces open up
and nature itself becomes the object found.
I go into its internal spaces — become a shadow
laid down in time as I lie on the ground,
spreadeagled, feeling the rhythm
the gender of rainfall as if I were sand.
(after Andy Goldsworthy)
By Elsa Fischer