Forgotten Ground Regained
The Wood
Winner of the Cædmon Prize, 2019
Originally published in Withowinde 193, p. 10, Winter, 2019
The wood is waste: wildland strongholdwhere nightmares dwell, their daytime haunt.This wood is wolf-fast: a wilderness lairwith claws of bramble, bites of nettle.This wood is shaded: the shortcut homewe dare to risk ‧ if running late,when fright of mother’s ‧ the mightier fear.A gloom of green ‧ gathers, cloaking.Shielded fom sunlight, we swiftly dread.Each bough above ‧ bears an ambush:Waiting woodwoses, wild and hairy,with clubs to crack ‧ or cleave our heads.This wood is waste: a wilderness lair.The path peters out; pucks have covered it,left only lights ‧ to lead us awry,to mud-mired ground ‧ of grendel pits.Each thicket is home ‧ to hidden elves,mighty man-scathers, matchless archers.If we linger a little, they’ll loose their shotof pin-sharp points ‧ primed with venom.This wood is wild: a wasteland stronghold,the root-rumpled soil ‧ ready to trip us,this abode of bear, boar, and aurochwhose snorts and snarls ‧ spur us onwardto seek escape: the signs of haven,the hope of hedge line ‧ heading to ploughland.We take with us tales ‧ untold to parents.
When time has turned ‧ twenty years on, I chance on the wilds, walking with family.To adult eyes ‧ all is smaller,the trees of terror ‧ a trifling copse.This wood is puny, a pocket covert.My childhood fears ‧ feel so laughable,then I suddenly spot ‧ my son, shuddering.
Copyright © Martin Vine, 2019
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