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| The Green Man | |
| By Orlock | ||
| 20 April 2008 | ||
The Green ManBranches, like fingers, brushed past my face, revealing a tranquil orchard dwelling: Overhead, arching bowers fashioned the walls, stretching to the sky with arms of scarlet and bronze, and windows of sunset, draping a gentle wind, tumbled from aloft in a waterfall of gold. Picture the druids with their mistletoe, crunching underfoot dead branches shrouded in leaves, now crisp and brown, and tangled roots that vein the floors between shoots of bluebells and foxglove. Circling the dolmens, chanting to him, while all the centuries fade away, like the embers of a campfire. Am I alone? Is something there? “Show yourself – If you dare!” But no response, except the carpet of leaves, being softly stirred by the autumn breeze. And the whispering wind (His voice) charmed my ears, before diminishing. Out there in the woods, as old as trees, hides a face amongst the leaves.
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