Hedges, like lawns, are of no use to the witch unless they are overgrown, wild, and generative. She likes to feel overwhelmed, to feel powerless in the presence of unruly vegetation. Hawthorn is a native of this island. To cut its branches is a death sentence, to violate it is to incite supernatural wrath.

For the proper adherence to ritual we had shaved our hair ultra-close, and smeared on a square of silver zinc that morning. We shone in the pale light, our glittering scalps catching the last rays of sun.

The dark spools forward and I grip the branch. I lunge into the deep mud and my holy communion dress is ratted at the hem. In the tunnel velvet leaks down in ugly heaps. I crawl until I come to a clearing in the forest.

We record this by leaving the work unfinished and unresolved. The absence is a space for grief.

Anna and Melissa ate with some ceremony, taking tiny bites and washing them down with tea. They had a stomach ache all the time from eating nothing but trees.

Her body is a miracle in the house. Copper sulphite leaks from her. The sink blooms with a little mould, a little sparkle.

THE GREEN HEAT BLEW OVER GRACE AS SHE CLIMBED THE HILL SHE HADN’T FELT THE COLOUR OF THE SKY FOR SO LONG. PALE FLAVOURS SKIMMED HER TONGUE, HEMP, LICORICE, APPLE, SOAKING HER THIRST. THERE WAS NO END TO THE LIGHT.