I think you wandered wood with me, back before we were young — your laughter trailing out behind you in scarlet ribbons as I follow, stepping over the old deadfall log, under the lichened overhanging stone. We wore horns, you and I, mine forked fingers and yours living bone, and we tore through the overgrowth, and under ossified bone.
Hallo, hallo, you said to me, I have become oak. And you stood tall and elder on the hill over the bog. The bone white birch laughed as they swayed under your canopy and the frogs’ voices rose to a terrible storm.
For my part, I longed to be fox and I curled my burning tail around we for added warmth in the den you offered up for to be my home. I barked as the moon hid her face behind a mask of clouds, content to be held within you.
And we held things that way until the autumn came and then winterfall, the burning of my tail meant to keep us warm.
Through cruel months we held.
It was the waking that broke the spell.
How I hated that dismal sound. That breaking, shattering our song.
6 responses to “Wandered wood”
There was one magical day when I was young and skipped school and hung out all day in a wood nearby. This reminds me of that day. Thanks!
You’re welcome. Thank you!
I miss those kinds of woods.
This is giving me associations which I can’t quite grasp. Herne the Hunter, Actaeon turned to a stag, shifter folk, Ovid’s ‘Metamorphoses’?? Whatever, it’s an effective piece of writing. 🙂
Nothing deliberate. All of those things, perhaps. Maybe others too.
I remember it well, the wind and the movement of the trees. We sang with flowers then, birds too, back when all the languages were the same. I miss it.
🙂