But I’m no conservationist.
I say it like a disclaimer,
that it’s not my training,
like I’m a stick of rock
that in my middle says “Yoof Worker”.
But I’m no conservationist.
The choughs circling the cliffs
seem to have missed the memo.
Dovorian’s young and old name me:
pom-pom maker,
shield matron, with a key to colours and beasts
Chough Lady.
But I’m no conservationist.
Even as I’m out there again,
tramping the world's blue seams,
knowing rivers that giggle,
lakes placidly hush,
oceans dream slowly,
ponds hold the moon like a secret.
Anything wet, really,
anything bigger than a puddle,
and suddenly I’m ankle-deep in devotion.
But I’m no conservationist.
I keep tasting the world,
believing every day’s a school day:
the salt on my lips,
the moss-green hush of a bank,
watching the sky for familiar feathers
chough wings brushing
the edges of my noticing.
I’m cataloguing textures with my fingertips,
listening to the soft grammar of leaves,
letting the wind rewrite me.
But I’m no conservationist.
I insist, while organising communities
like someone gathering fallen twigs
to build a fire worth standing around.
My knowledge bank grows feral,
sprouting facts and stories
like seedlings that refuse to stay in their pots.
People keep handing me questions
if I don’t know the answers,
I help plant them in other fertile soil.
But I’m no conservationist.
I repeat, as if repetition could make it true
as if the choughs weren’t circling overhead,
as if my boots weren’t already muddy,
as if my heart weren’t quietly
rewilding itself, every time I step outside.
