Wild Garlic

Out in the copse after rain
(too late after dark to be here).
Warm soil, woodlice dripping
from the underside of leaves.

I root down to the tender stalks
and twist them free – soaked petals
dip and touch my arm, kernels
of bud, itch of foliage, of wildness

on my skin. The wood is carrying
the smell, earth-rich, too heavy
to lift above head-height, and my boots
and jeans are bleached with it.

I turn home, and all across the floor
the spiked white flowers
light the way. The world is dark
but the wood is full of stars.