Fungi
I like my fungi
sauteed in butter
in a pan with a chopped clove
of garlic, parsley and plenty
of salt and pepper.
Or sliced and simmered
in chicken stock
with arborio rice
and topped with parmesan
cheese in a creamy
mushroom risotto.
I like the musty,
earthy smell
that some fungi have,
the exquisite delicacy
of the gills,
the soft, spongy feel,
the variety of shapes
and colours that range
across a pallet
of grays, yellows,
pinks and purples
through to a bleed
of vibrant reds.
Fungi feed
the senses.
But most spectacular
of all is the fungi
that hides beneath my feet
in a buried network
of fibres thinner
than a human hair,
connecting a forest
in one enormous web
carrying nutrients
to hungry roots
and the secret language
of trees. Poetry
is like fungi.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2025
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