Hypocreaceae

In the midst of the green, an autumn-like sun rises

A walnut-like creation springs forth,

Surrounded by the rush of lush vegetation covered in pixie-dust dew drops, 

An oddity, a rarity, a circus act

Cruel-humoured fingers reaching, clawing.

Hideous they say, strange they say, grotesque they say, and sneer.

And yet, if we stare long enough, as it clings to the dead and fallen branches,

We see it. A mirror, a flawed reflection.

Sad really, it clutches, hopelessly, to dead branches 

Hoping for the future by sticking to the past. 

We don't notice it in the humid forest,

Not as the dew drops cling to it as if a lifeline in flood,

Not as the fires rage on around us,

We are the circus act, we are the cruel-humoured fingers 

So threatened, so alone, so unnoticed,

But wait, there in the corner, forgotten, or so it seems,

Clusters form, groups are made, 

Spreading, growing, surviving,

They band together, a chain, each part a need, a necessity,

This isn't the end, it's just the beginning.