where the brush grows and gorse blazes yellow bearing blooms on thorny crowns, there are paths that traverse the cracked dirt.
parched mud or humid jungle, where the swelter bursts blisters
and swells the pricking bites of a hundred flies, every way forward filled with obstacles is the same. whether by blade, torch, or trench
you have to tear the undergrowth asunder, cut down the coppice
and rip up the brushwood by its roots to make a new road to travel.
it’s ugly horticulture, this scorched earth slash-and-burn, but some plants grow better for the ashes;
- from burning the bushes // kezia cole














