The Cold Calling

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He is invisible in the greenery.

The Green Man.

The very oldest Guardian of the Earth, whose face one sees carved in stone above church doorways, his hair luxuriant with leaves, the leaves bearing fruit — stone nuts and stone berries. More leaves sprouting whole from the grinning mouth, foliage gripped between stone teeth. The grin that says, I am the Earth.

The Green Man, who stands — or crouches, or squats — for the Old Energy which once sprang from hill to holy hilltop across a shimmering land — a force which could make the fields breathe visibly and bring the oldest and coldest of stones to squirming life and…

Stop. Listen. Watch.

This day, the Green Man, our Green Man, knows he is perceptible only as foliage — roots and branches, fungi and moss. He is of the Earth.

Utterly, utterly still, he listens to the Earth, his mother, his sister, his wife … her heart beating faster and fainter nowadays … most people have never heard it, will not leave their cars to walk on anything more responsive than tarmac or concrete.

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