Mycelium

A rain-soaked garden appears perfectly ordered, while something unseen persists beneath the surface.

I nearly lose my hand on the rail.
Rain's got at the red paint,
and the moss beside the water looks brighter for it.
I came over here because of the bridge.
Then I hear the birds.

They're somewhere beyond the planted garden,
from trees farther out,
wrong for the scene but not the place.
Their calls pass easily through the garden,
clear above the sound of rain.

There isn't a mushroom anywhere,
not among the moss or by the stones,
nothing breaking through the tended earth.
Still, I know the smell at once:
wet wood, dark soil, mushrooms somewhere.

Paths are clear, the borders tended.
The gardener can reach all of this.
Beyond them, all of Tatton is wet;
underfoot, the earth is soaking,
and the smell comes through regardless.

My hand tightens on the painted rail.
The little bridge lies slick beneath me.
Birds call again from farther out.
Rain deepens the red of the wood.
Everything still looks immaculate.