SITE WRITING // elm, alder, ash, oak.
There are our ghost footprints, the monkey bars, the half-pint pillars.
Our frowned over moss lawn, our to-the-left roots.
Spring turf, Rhytidiadelphus Squarrosus. Star-like, red stem.
Pointed spear, Calliergonella Cuspidate. Base-rich, pointed, branched, chartreuse.
Too warm in my human skin, I wish to ripple and shed. Become bryophyte.
Woodland dwelling, striated feather, abundant. Bridge. (Drawing). Applied to face twice daily.
It stays at the surface; we let the spectre come to us. Fragment, scattered, un-here. Heritage holding kinship with assemblage. We were not a trick of the light; I tap this to myself via my knuckles. The passage under the bridge tells us to check the entrails again. The narcissus does not answer any questions. (We walk). In wake of a storm, two trees lay here together.
Haul them back up. Undo storm damage, place plasters on their tree-knot-heart knees. Our indignant responsibilities: tending, restorative justice. Grass standing a new upright.
Vines between the echo of other.
Silvergreen, Bryum Argenteum. Extended, rewilded, perennial.
Oakmoss lichen, Evernia Prunastri. Deciduous, antlered, green, grey.
Two saplings stretch to find vertical. Gain vantage.
Wych elm, alder, ash, oak. Clay body a crater.
Close the pores. Find what you need. Brought down to show the same kindness. An act of grounding, shoes removed, feet to rest on a fallen trunk. Followed overgrowth, crossed a pit, noted uneven ground. If the roots cannot span, will the moss continue until it is exhausted? Distraught, we keep pulling it from the tomb, borrowing it for flow states. A fluxing vestige, the magic that came inherent before the stretch. Hand inside the generator, flood bounces on its axis.
There are no historical stories adapted to this genus at the present moment.
But it continues to grow through the lawn. Bark forms on the surface organ, branching the oesophagus, pointing at a once folkloric hibernation. It knows us too well to go through with any abandonment. My alarm goes off as I reach the group. Later, I will ask what becomes of the roots. Bryum, Klauss, branched, yellow green.
It fills the rifts.
WHAT BECOMES //
Wych, Scots, twisted grain
water disturbances
you hand will tremor as you consider
moments and ancestors
the caterpillars rely on the rare blades
path: sticky weed, cleaver
goosegrass breaks to
sponge
leaves meant for the stream
we sat opposite the sign
“Welcome to Applecross Street”
Alnus, birch, swamp dweller
fissures with lichen
the narcissus grows by a fallen trunk
believing itself to be the last of the gorgeous
nearby we are rounded by tread
meander and pause
meander and pause
cobbles to brick to dash
meeting of cool smooth temperate
Canopy, age, belove,
lilac or olive
toward the sun
dropped, still green
where we stepped
we only looked for ways to feed it
eyes follow the trap
rooted portal
collected on a whim
Spiral, lobe, borne within a cup
loosen and shelter,
seven hundred and sixteen variations
expectant and toddling
under the ancients
hauntings and branch cracks
humming places
to see faces in the trunks
cave, knee bruise
Sherwood, nine hundred
Bowthorpe, one thousand
Marton, one thousand two hundred
Windsor, one thousand four hundred.
elm, alder, ash, oak
Ulmus Procera
Alnus Glutinosa
Fraxinus Excelsior
Quercus Robur
it is not for us to know
if the roots will reach what they need.
Jodie Whitchurch (she/they) is an Art Writer and Theatre Maker based in the East Midlands. In September 2025, she graduated from the Glasgow School of Art in MLitt Art Writing. Their writing has been published by Big White Shed, Big Red Cat Zine, From Glasgow to Saturn, Flare Lit Magazine, Eavesdrop, The Yellow Paper, and The Nottingham Horror Collective. Writing with beloved (though tiresome) ghosts and mysticism—they traverse terrains of poetic hybrid form, botanical illustration, and knitted sculpture. Their pamphlet, MOSS GIRL, is currently stocked at Good Press, Glasgow.