Spalted wood Matt Gilbert

Matt Gilbert

Spalted wood

Had to take it, didn’t I? Have it, remove that slice of tree heart, revealed when clearing space for light in the woods, blood-red stripe shining through the middle, wordless seaside rock.

Strange to find such beauty, born of fighting fungi, ascomycetes, or unsexed imperfecti, dyeing the insides with lines of pigment, expanding as they battle over territory, unseen, until the tree dies, or is cut open.

Back home, I flashed my trophy, earning praise for craft I’d had no part in, shelved my wooden lump, leaving it to sit unvarnished, as the bright colour faded, dulled to pink, until almost unremarkable.