The Mushrooms Are Here

The mushrooms erupted

in one frost-laden night,

like the white plumes of mist hung

over Ben Lomond;

Not flora nor fauna,

they huddle for warmth,

those white-robed reverends

stock-still in their prayer;

With the gills of a fish and the

trunk of a tree,

they're the periscope peaks of

some creature beneath,

huddled and half-known,

deep down in the dark.