Green Man

See a face

Among the leaves,

Green like undergrowth

In spring; his moss-gendered

Brow welcomes you warmly

As you pass beneath the emerald

Arches of his embowered

Shrine.

Behind this face, lies being greater

Than most would surmise, for he is

Keeper and grounds, pastor and flock,

Painter and art, and more, faithful

Witness to your morning

Walk musings, your muttering

And littering. He is the memory

That holds the scattered breath of battles,

Bandits and souls lost to the woodland’s

Taut embrace. He is shepherd to spirits

And tutor to druids, watchful while

They map the arteries of his soil,

Mindful of the meaning they inscribe

Where none will ever

Know to look.

Years and years fall upon him,

Persistent like the downpour

Of dew, patiently peeling his skin,

Bleaching his bloom, encroaching.

He blinks and there’s barrenness

Approaching, devouring, usurping.

Then there’s Man, always

Straightening, always hollowing,

Always abandoning for him to return,

Raise his roots, reclaim the land

He never left.