Surrealism

In the stump of the old tree, where the heart has rotted out,
there is a hole the length of a man's arm, and a dank pool at the
bottom of it where the rain gathers, and the old leaves turn into
lacy skeletons. But do not put your hand down to see, because

in the stumps of old trees, where the hearts have rotted out,
there are holes the length of a man's arm, and dank pools at the
bottom where the rain gathers and old leaves turn to lace, and the
beak of a dead bird gapes like a trap. But do not put your
hand down to see, because

in the stumps of old trees with rotten hearts, where the rain
gathers and the laced leaves and the dead bird like a trap, there
are holes the length of a man's arm, and in every crevice of the
rotten wood grow weasel's eyes like molluscs, their lids open
and shut with the tide. But do not put your hand down to see, because

in the stumps of old trees where the rain gathers and the
trapped leaves and the beak, and the laced weasel's eyes, there are
holes the length of a man's arm, and at the bottom a sodden bible
written in the language of rooks. But do not put your hand down
to see, because

in the stumps of old trees where the hearts have rotted out
there are holes the length of a man's arm where the weasels are
trapped and the letters of the rook language are laced on the
sodden leaves, and at the bottom there is a man's arm. But do
not put your hand down to see, because

in the stumps of old trees where the hearts have rotten out
there are deep holes and dank pools where the rain gathers, and
in you ever put your hand down to see, you can wipe it in the
sharp grass till it bleeds, but you'll never want to eat with
it again.

(Hugh Sykes Davies)