Beneath the roots, beneath the stone,
Where sunlight’s reach is overthrown,
A tangled web begins to grow—
A secret world we rarely know.
No wires hum, no voices cry,
Yet messages in silence fly.
Through thread and thread, from tree to tree,
A forest hums in mystery.
The mushrooms bloom like fleeting ghosts,
But underneath, they play the host
To wisdom old and knowledge deep—
The whispers plants and flowers keep.
A mother tree, her roots grown wide,
Will feed the saplings at her side.
And when a pine begins to fade,
The others sense her dimming shade.
They send her sugars, send her care,
Through fungal threads that stretch and share.
A network vast as any net,
With memory we cannot forget.
They speak of drought. They speak of blight.
They speak beneath the edge of night.
In every step, in every glade,
The mycelium’s lace is gently laid.
No need for mouth, no need for sound—
Their language lies beneath the ground.
An unseen web, both wise and true,
Connecting grass, and oak, and yew.
So pause before you crush the soil,
The earth beneath has shaped your toil.
The forest speaks in threads so fine—
And mushrooms hold the ancient line.
©️ 2025
The Royal Octopus 