Mushroom Gathering

by Siobhan Hodge

The rules say nothing of why we should forage,

only not – we’re out here alone – time to hunt

with your eyes, leave the tender caps untipped,

a haunt of tiny white heads, undergrowth bristling. Let the animals

have them, but I wonder how they know

which ones are fair or foul, food or folly. The sheep bleat on and on,

distant tussocks in the fog. Goomalling rains aren’t enough

to drive us off. We wander into bush, golden wood with ochre spores,

creeping on fallen tree, a secret commune

of extra roots, laced with song. Egg tart gloss of inermisia fusiapora,

earth tongues wave in their reef-like village. False truffles

squat upon the earth, rosy beards and greyish jellies

blend as a shoal of silver fish. Magpie fungus,

stem flare, spores hanging between us, sinking in. I would not know them

in my garden beds, those anxious rows far from the rose-grey skies

and sheep bone circles. No pert buttons, docile with butter.

The horse mushrooms sprinkle dirt beneath my nails,

sand clogs the penknife slice. I flip each comforting tab,

shuck yellow stainers dyed with warning, listen to our breaths, let the circle in.