The Forest of Dean

An ancient forest is another worthy place to ramble in after midnight. This time the sky is conscience clear. A half moon is nested in its swing, showing off its half power. It starts with rising but continues with sinking. It is changing its colour. The bold milk yellow becomes a more ashamed orange ruby. When I do not trust the moon I switch on my headlight. Its cold greenish white light gives the nearest surroundings pale and mortal hue. It is not difficult to recognize shapes of hanging birds or bulks of gaping bodies of villains and saints here and there. I prefer to switch it off and trust the moonlight. (After all, am I not whispermoonlight? But I do not think of it now, immersed in my perception.)

At one moment I notice a shadow cast in front of me. I step on it and it springs forward. - No, there is no catching your shadow. It is in a mute allegiance with spectres of the trees. They reach out for my eyes and stick them to their branches, vain & conceited. I turn my head right and left and right, then up, near and far, everywhere there is a story, a life, an exclamation and a question mark. They moan, complain, reproach, boast, keep silent, radiate, threaten, lure, plead, steal and lie. They know my way and give me false directions. They mix up paths so that what is on the map is not in reality. And if they cannot, they distract me with their bare shapes so that I miss a crucial turn and have to return. Like this one, which is displaying the pride of its dozen limbs and one phallic protrusion, turning my head on purpose on the left where I should be turning to the right.

When I have born long enough their misleading signs and paths peppered with unfinished, eaten out stones, I make a fire. A small one on a moss covered stump. The leaves and the ground underneath are wet with frost, I need not be afraid. Unlike my headlight, which only beats the kettle of tangled emotions with a simile of light, this one is real and warms me up and my tea. With a temperature drowning just below the surface, this source of heat is a gift from heaven or - from an army packet found in a hostel. The matches I have got from it burn extra long and convince sweating sticks to burn along. My exhilaration grows. I forget the forest and focus on my cup and the flaming glow. When I decide I have had enough pleasure it starts to snow. Putting out the fire with tea run through my body turns out to be a premature act. The snow would have done it. I put on my plastic poncho and dodge the white blindness. In the morning the trees pretend not to know about anything as they stand humiliated by the soft rebuke from the sky. They hold on and pose as if they were models at the latest winter fashion show.