A fool stands in a hole as the rag-ends of a storm thrash overhead, filling the air with static, shaking out vinegary Atlantic rain. The hole is formed by the upended rootplate of an ash tree that crashed to earth, sprawling 20 metres into the wood. The trunk’s girth is two spans around, its broken boughs are pile-driven into the ground; the wreckage is bigger than a barn and was not here yesterday.
In falling, the tree opens a hatch into the earth. It is dry there, even after all the rain. The hole glows with storm-light. The amputated root ends are laced with fungus rhizomes: an underground ...
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