Let me introduce you to…

My place, the moss

For extra tranquility, why not listen to this letter? I record outdoors, so you never know what extras you might get!

Place has a way of seeping in through your pores, with every intake of breath. Let me introduce you to my place: the moss.

A year ago I went in search of lichen and moss—the green fluffy kind—in the wood; I never got there. Brimful, water called me to ground level where I cross an old ditch. Sunlight reflected, refracted, each small shape backlit. I returned through all four seasons. At the end you’ll find a link to a series of posts about their small beauty and why lowland raised bogs matter.

Now the water is more hide than seek, and there seems to have been less intense colour (a wet summer, a milder winter?). Busy with other things, I briefly contemplated if it had lost its novelty. Either side of the equinox and in a different corner I rediscover the magic. Not silvered water this time, but submerged colour, and the sweeping lines of sedge. One day I may fill a book with these alone.

Early mornings have offered soft light and seduction, a little gossamer mist. In the winter snows I found new deer paths to follow. They watch me now, bemused. And as I sit on the edge of the peat bank while attempting to do justice to the flowering hare's tail cotton grass I wonder when someone last did this. And if anyone has ever looked, really closely, at the small world by my feet.

This place. This place makes me think, and notice.

A sea, punctuated by pine masts. A sea in which I drift, in the softness of morning, the waves drawn by the curving blades of cotton grass shining in the early light. Below the surface buds and flowers are appearing. Hot red marks the moss’ coral: sphagnum. Reindeer lichen and red dotted cladonia take the role of anemones. Ling heather the place of seaweed reaching up towards the sky. En masse dusky pink, more muted but a rival to August’s purple.

At this level, the intersection of above and below, it’s a little like looking into an aquarium, or swimming along a reef. The macro lens makes this intimate world big, and me small. It is far from being the barren moor of history or the cursory glance.

It’s good to feel rooted into a landscape, however tiny. To build lignin, to withstand wind and weathering.

Over time another accumulation builds, one of words that began with my little book A New Topography and may lead to another.

Pressed flat under the weight of sky
a horizontal land
millimetres of slow sedimentation
organics that refuse to become stone
but wait, weight, with infinite patience

For more mossiness, check out New Life on Old Bones.

It's always good to hear what thoughts my letters prompt, and to know that they bring you a little tranquility. I’ve chosen to keep them available to everyone, so feel free to pass this onto a friend, relative or colleague who may enjoy it.

Until next week,

If you enjoy reading and listening, a small tip is a lovely ‘thank you’, and much appreciated.

PostScript

Imperfection
Im-perfection
I’m perfection

It's all relative

This week’s share is a beautifully written post by

Steve Edwards

which includes:

The poem is the feather left behind in the grass.

If you want to write a poem, do this...

All words and images are copyright © Michela Griffith 2025 except where otherwise noted