Monday, 27 September 2010


The silver trees are swaying, stirring, and shifting, setting their leaves rustling. The sweeping sound surrounds me, along with the noise of ravens cawing, finches fussing, and the stream rushing over rocks and logs cushioned with moss. It is raining. This ancient wood smells damp and earthy, and water droplets drip from every twig. My feet negotiate the jutting tree roots, but I don’t really need to see. I know the way; I see it in my sleep. I slip between the trees, noiseless and stealthy. I leave no mark in the thick beds of moss.

A little further and then I see it, a single yellow rose tucked between the stones by the side of the stream. It makes me smile, this confected bloom in my beautiful wild wood. But he brings me a fresh one every day. Such devotion: I cannot fault his heart.

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