Lepraria incana
Dust lichen, you say. Powder stains my glove-tips, grey as trees, as fields, as sky. Your glass finds fragile empires in broken bark and stone.
Graphis scripta
Writing lichen. Your hands run gentle over birches, reading secret runes. The words mean nothing to me. Take off those gloves, you say.
Cladonia pyxidata
Chalice lichen. I spot it first. You smile and pass the lens, warm from your grasp. Fairy-cups rise from moss, inviting me to drink.
Rhizocarpon geographicum
Map lichen. We navigate terrains of ochre, mustard, gold. When your fingers brush mine, I know I am not lost.
This story was shortlisted in the March Monthly Micro Competition.
About the author: Sarah Royston’s writing draws inspiration from nature, folklore and the landscapes of southern England. Her short fictions and poetry are published/forthcoming in The Hyacinth Review, Horned Things, Noctivagant Press and Soor Ploom Press.