top of page

The Natural Order: A Collection

By Nisha Wittingham




Once swinging now swung.

Flinging and flinging and flinging my extremities hoping something would present itself from the strain.

Between shoulders,

Between fingers and ears and thighs all things symmetrical.

Arms shaking trying to contain trying to keep and convulsing in the process.

The process of growth,



life and death.

Wrapped up and packaged in one and many bodies.

Arms heavy.

Arms undone.



Decomposition stage

The fall from the tree.

The shatter that caused it and the aftershock that followed.

Waves and waves of debris at blunt force plummeting towards and away from you.

Reaching for shards to stabilise your fall and only encountering sharp scratch after sharp scratch upon reaching.

Fearing the inevitable rot you’ll face upon hitting the ground.

Embodying the debris that falls around you succumb,

Lean in,

Go down.




We and the Trees

Spending all the while growing against gravity taught the young boys whose childhoods were an accumulation of accumulating between tress accumulated in the forest.

This accumulation of the natural order.

We became one at different altitudes.

You saw us from below and admired how we reached in circular motion out towards to beaming sun.

And we peered down at you, Soaking in the dredges of sunlight we discarded.

The psychedelic greens and yellows that tinted the frame and lined these childhoods with our accumulation will be.

As the altitude thickens and it becomes harder to look down-

The most whole my roots and felt. The most sun bathed and ready my extremities have looked. Because of the glory-soaked memories that scatter my leaves about the things below me when it pours. I’ve felt the trees.



We Were

We were the children in the trees.

The parents present or not at their root.

Foundations, nonetheless.

But when you’re far away,

In a distant land-

Foreigner in spite of being on foreign land,

Land above your feet not feeling steady,

and so you’re hit with a perpetual taste of nausea.

Misunderstood and abandoned and wondering how adults could walk past trees without offering water despite the knowledge full well that those you pass are dying,

withering, untouched at the root.


the children in the trees that shook violently in the

wake of famished branches now brittle.

Watching adults pass by and ignore us.

Our introduction into ageing had become bitter before it had even started.




As above.

The colossal weight

The minute altitude difference.

So below.

The downwards dragging force.

So below,

the lower altitude and the booming relentless sounds

that grew upwards from whatever lay festering beneath.

And between. Where we meet.

Equilibrium in our chaos,

Cancelling each other out,

Forcing silence.

Stillness between the mountains,

The solemn oceans trading in tides for the sound of life.



In its Entirety

With merely a body I die

over and over again.

Weaved in and out of being

alive reborn and dead once again.

I watched dystopias unfold around me

like undisturbed flatpack furniture.

There’s an unsettle to it.

An unnerve to it.

The derelict, the waste,

the things we’ve left behind and pushed like cold

leftover food to the side of our plates to the side of our

brains and wonder why we’re running out of space.

The abandoned stumps of stories torn down for the sake of space.

The paradox lies in the feeling of being suffocated.

The harsh and the brutal taking place of the

fruition of all things natural and,

so now our affluence lies in the grey.




I soak up the sun with the will to grow closer to it,

fonder of its rays and its solidarity that helps me to stand red.

Because of this I am glowing and brazen,

I am the asparagus foliage that does brush against the fingers of the wind.

Binding with the green,

binding with the thread of blue that swayed like the tides that ebb into the part of the sea we

cannot see so we assume its existence despite not having seen it in all its glory,

this will be my next discovery.

I am the fascination that travels the seas like the flowers travel

the air travels the tearing of the sun's rays to

soak into each branch each thorn each

browning spot on this stem.

Power has the longevity of a bamboo,

with the strength and grace of the air and the sun to pull me back to centre pull me back

to a state of mind that allows me to enter back into consciousness.

Bloom the most voluptuous flowers that

fall upon the sunlight like feathers

tainted by gold dust,

I will love these petals even when they

are falling away from sunlight.

I will love this garden even on nightfall

when heads are tilted and hope seems

blackened by the shade of the moon.

I will see through.



The Price

Why do we wait for the last tree to fall until

we realise that breathing is a necessity,

Taking for granted every essence of free you think

you have in trade for decay of the world around you,

Look up Look around.

Don’t look down at the steps you’ve taken the wrists

you’ve shaken to drown out the thought that

you’ve helped the earth in its dying.

We’ve helped the birth of an antimatter

that doesn’t stop multiplying until it sees

destruction all around.

Sees the last tree that doesn’t make a sound

but cannot be blamed because you asked for this silence.

You asked for peace and quiet momentarily so

you could listen to what you thought were

chirping birds graceful herds. But really those birds were fighting, those birds were dying.

Your biggest mistake was mistaking mortality for

an illusion that made harmonious sounds tainted the

breeze like we tainted the ground our steps didn’t

make a sound because we were too busy trying set

fire to the mound of distinctions and deaths we’ve plagued here,

tried to hide it by slipping it under the mat

that other wiped their feet on when entering a new

realm of denial but we couldn’t shake the truth this time.

We couldn’t risk another life just to prove a

point of the damage we’re doing and we’ve done.

Paying the price for this has only just begun.



Lack of Breath

I live between being sane and being free

Being old enough to have experience

but not at an age to learn from it.

Being the lines that separates the green from the blue on a summer's day.

Separates the grey from the lightning that strikes every hue of

darkness into an astronomical light we saw nebulas

before our eyes a celestial calamity a skin-tight galaxy caressing

the universes curves and outlines.

The iridescent nightlight that gave darkness it’s

darkness the darkness

is too overwhelming the harness is too overbearing I see

the stars and the sky and wonder why I can

never touch them they give the illusion of being near when

really they are just large and far away.

Like the lustrous future that pricks twinkles in my eye so

near but so far so low but so high I can’t reach,

maybe I’m just scared of heights and crossing borders,

maybe I’m just scared of touching the water that steams thinking it’s hot but the air is just cloudy.

Maybe the voices are too rowdy and I need

some space the universe has a tendency to be

irrefutable I’m stuck in an indisputable existence that

chucks purpose in my face and tells me to find it but

I don’t know where to look.

Like being blindfolded in the dark this cancels out to create some type of existence of light,

maybe if I pretend that light exists I can open my eyes for a second.

But how does one outside the blindfold know I’ve opened my eyes.

How do they know if I haven’t crumbled into my own

disguise of not being able to see if they themselves are shrouded in darkness.

This carcass of mine is wearing thin I have no purpose to fill it with.

To have purpose is to be fulfilled.

Empty and purposeless until given purpose.

The watercolour paint cannot paint unless water is added.

I am brittle and dry.

Small and mild therefore I do not contend

with the forceful immensity of this universe.

I do not contend with the flow of a galactic stream

because of my lack of breadth and viscosity.

I crave the purpose to be.

bottom of page