Waterfall

 
Roots
... roots are at the root of forest fear ... fear of the greenwood, of the wild trees surrounding cabins and huts and crushing them at night ... scared of the darkness ... afraid of the wildness, the wilderness, surrounding us, closing us in ... trees rushing, crushing ... rootless, restless, anonymous, faceless trees -- they confound us, making us lose our way ... their leaf noise stifles other sound ... they sever sunlight, close the moon’s eye, douse stars and skies that might guide us ... they bewilder us, these trees and move us to fear ... THE GREEN MAN ... this tree king, king of the forest, roi de la forêt, tumbled now, mon beau sapin, struck down in his prime, in his glory, dragged into the house, to stand there in chains of coloured lights, a captive, brought to judgement ... proud his head, the stand of him, the stock of him, humbled now, fed water from a tinfoil bowl and doomed to last his dozen days ... soon he will be ejected, turned over to fire and flame ... and the wilderness is conquered in this moment of mid-winter madness when we put the forest to saw and sword ... we lay aside our primeval fears, we give a warm welcome to the wild man, the green man, ... then we sacrifice him at midnight ... the yule log burnt, Christmas behind us and the New Year striding up to our door ... the old tree torn down ... the wild man returned to his wilderness once more ... FOREST KING ... he is here before us, leading us now, striding into the forest, his toes gripping the soil, breaking the rock ... waiting in the forest ... lusting for our bodies to fall ... desiring us to lie down before him in our grave cloths and winding sheets to fill the damp hole dug at his feet ... his roots now, reaching out, tripping the unwary ... contriving to conjure them down from thin air ... striving to stretch them and pull them down, to wrap them in his wooden waistcoat ... sudden wet scent of sodden woods and our footsteps deadened on last year’s fallen leaves, a carpet crisp last autumn, soaked now, and slippery beneath our feet ... and a frigid wooden waistcoat awaiting us in this waste land of wooden coats ... damp, dark earth at the root of them, there where inverted tap roots reach up and out to spread fine fingers, fleshy bark-bound hands ... feet planted solid, with long toes cracking rocks and bones ... one day they will pierce our flesh with the pine needle prick of a predator ... they wait, lurking in shadows, where earth’s skin breaks and rocks and roots break through... they test us in our wanderings when we walk through their realms ... for they hope to greet us at the dark end of our lives ... when the earth is opened and we descend to dwell among them, passing our time side by side with those all-embracing roots ... WATERFALL ... angel’s hair, these fine threads tumbling from above, falling, white, over rocky shoulders, surging across pillows of cushioning moss ... luxuriant, seductive, these waters after rain ... the downpour that descended from the skies now pouring down rocks and gullies ... a dark spot on dry earth, at first, and then a rivulet, a gully, a rushing stream, a roaring torrent ... descending, here and there, all over the forest, dropping down from the hills above ... with the trees revived in this driest of summers ... and the thunder building ... Thor’s hammer rattled on Earth’s dark anvil, and the whole world a-tremble, waiting for the hammer blow to fall ... and when it does, the great sparks fly, the lightning falls, the woodlands blaze and water falls as a blessing to relieve the woods in their time of heat and and stress ... drought and doubt ... dry cracked rock of the river bed as the thunder calls and the rain descends ... from cloud through air to earth ... to sink through the soil, to emerge in rivulets and brooks until water is one and the rains join hands and rejoicing splash to the river ... dryads and naiads together, in deep, cool pools ... and there are nymphs again, reborn in this river, and satyrs to hunt them, their beauty glimpsed through a break in the trees, there, where the waters pool, silent and fresh, refreshed the woods and the waters washing down the rocks and away to the waiting sea ... PEACE PIPES ... after the water’s tumult, white clay pipes glimpsed shy beneath broken branches ... fallen leaves ... bright things in dark corners, shunning the light, sheltered from the all-revealing sun ... standing silent, waiting ... for those who seek beyond the beaten path for peace, perfect peace, and here the indian pipes ... the moment of meditation ... the cautious footstep ... the hand and mind stretched out to grasp this moment of magic, this half light of perfect silence ... and peace ... and stillness ... beyond the waters’ tumble and roar ...