out to make a meadow

NEW POETRY INSPIRED BY BIOPHILIA

from the centre of a galaxy of blossom confetti, comes our latest Biophilia inspired poetry. we are delighted to share these works, birthing their colour and perfume all over our screens.

Wildflowers of Palestine, Jenny Lloyd

OFFSPRING
Crystal Melbourne

when I was seven I buried a dead bee in a matchbox
lined it with cotton and a blue forget-me-not
and cried for six hours

I’ve grown, but still dream of antlers
bursting from my collarbones,
of freshwater pooling in my ears
and something ancient
howling from within the meat of me
as if the wild never left,
just settled quietly behind my ribs

when I walk barefoot into the forest
(not as a visitor, but as a daughter returning home)
the moss knows the shape of my soles
before I know the direction I’m walking,
the wind breathes through me
like a parent shushing her child
and I  notice how trees stand and fall slowly
with a dignity known to no man’s empire

maybe the ache we carry is not a hunger for more
but a longing to belong
to something we were never separate from,
maybe our loneliness is just homesickness
and the old ways are muscle memory.



CABBAGE TEETH AND THE LANGUAGE OF THIRST
Fendy S. Tulodo

The first beet split its leaves at noon.
There was no noise, only a sharp tilt in the air—like the earth flinched.
Roots curled like fists.
The ground, once soft, had stiffened into a memory of food.
But there, in the dust-line of dying beans,
a hand traced syllables across bark—
not letters, not signs, but pulses.
Every plant had its own accent.
The onions were blunt.
The spinach lilted.
The cabbages gnashed vowels like old bones.
Each tone, lifted carefully, rewritten in song, looped from throat to toe,
marked in lines across a dried notebook
woven from flax stems and oil crust.
It had not rained in 204 days.
Moss tried to speak but collapsed before finishing a sentence.
So, they began to pull the music from the strongest:
the turnips, the kale, the stubborn bitter gourd.
That morning, the leaves sang.
A low hum first—then a trill, like flint striking flint. It was not a lullaby.
It was a scream with a spine, a chant pulled from deep below the crust,
twisting into an ancestral warning.
Three hours later, a fissure opened behind the lemon basil rows.
Not water—
but steam.
Warm, healing, thick with something older than hope.
A new growth followed.
Pale, odd-leafed, blinking toward the light.
Not green, not even close. But strong.
And every plant around it fell quiet, as if listening.



A FEAST FOR THE EYES THAT SETS THE TABLE
Joseph Nutman

The mustard plant didn't stand a chance, one moment
little yellow flashes burst from spidery stems, then – caterpillars.
 
How they fell upon the plants with singled-minded appetite
left petrified trees among their untouched neighbours.
 
It has been a rough year for pollinators – now an annual statement;
I made a bargain with life when I said I want to rewild the garden,
 
when I set out to make a meadow like a Pissarro painting
I set the table, and like any host I'm happy my guests left clean plates.
 
All this slinks to the back of my mind
like so many other slow-to-the-boil matters, a forgetting
 
that makes the beating of white sails unlooked for –  'til they flutter by,
the canter of new flight once imagined in chrysalis sleep
 
has a tumbling grace as gentle as a slumbering breath.




ON THE DAY OF THE BURSTING
Jessica Boatright

she shattered into pieces
all over the piny floor.

The trees had always known 
she was made of glass

but now an explosion
had been lit within her.

She lay refracting rain
into knots of oak.

She nestled into webs 
of hibernating spiders

cheek to cheek with centipedes 
curled on slackened brambles.

Was she happier, now that 
she was wisping into dust?

I’d like to say there were forensic suits 
and siren lights but there weren’t. 

The dew christened her bones each morning 
and she grew into woody light and vine, 

into a flourish 
of brilliant flowers.



MY MOTHER RETURNS TO THIS WORLD
Diem Okoye

as a rose. She spreads herself  
among basil and thyme,  
humble and fragrant. She does not  
clasp her locket now, does not  
tuck loose strands behind her ear,  
but I know her  
by the way she welcomes the wind.


She’ll bloom wilder next time.
Her sisters surround her,  
each a patch of yellow flame  
casting light over the hillside  
where her father,  
now a dove in flight, was once  
a musician, and the girl who will  
one day be a willow  
dances barefoot in the grass. 

Crystal Melbourne is a Germany-based writer and literature graduate whose work explores identity, emotional depth, and self-sovereignty,  drawing inspiration from the confessional introspection of Anais Nin and the raw, kinetic prose of Jack Kerouac. Her poetry collections include 'Star Crossed Poetry' and 'You Keep Me Safe, I Keep You Wild'. She is a contributing poet and editor of 'Mythos from Mt. Belus', and her pieces have also been featured in 'Giving' (Riza Press & Pen and Pendulum) and in 'Home' (Yellow Arrow Publishing). She draws literary inspiration from the confessional introspection of Anais Nin and the raw, kinetic prose of Jack Kerouac. 

Fendy is a writer from Malang, Indonesia. He writes about people’s deep feelings and life experiences. His stories often deal with love, power, and second chances. He looks at the darker sides of life. His characters face hard decisions where right and wrong aren't always clear.


Joseph Nutman is a poet from North Hertfordshire, he writes most of his work 'en plein air' in the countryside, occasionally trespassing to do so. He was shortlisted for the Cheltenham International Poetry festival competition, and his work has appeared publications by Spelt, Shearsman, Acid Bath Publishing, and Sunday Mornings at the River.

Jessica Boatright writes from a colourful house in Lincoln. Her words have been spotted in magazines including Magma, The Alchemy Spoon, Pulse and Anthropocene alongside various anthologies. In 2025 she placed third in the Disabled Poets Best Unpublished Pamphlet Prize, was shortlisted for the Artemesia Arts Poetry Competition and was highly commended in the Kathryn Bevis Memorial Poetry Prize. Jessica founded ‘Raising The Fifth,’ a curated creative space for people without children.

Diem Okoye is a writer and teacher. She lives with two German Shepherds and two neurotic cats. She moonlights as a copy editor and loves spending time with her family and friends.