Mighty Oaks dwarf a secluded Greenwood glade,
their shadows dancing in the gentle midsummer breeze
like things alive, swaying back and forth
as if to pan-pipes long since ceased to play.
Five days searching Sherwood's hidden places:
the clinging ivy, the rustling ferns, the toadstools,
the ancient tree trunks hollowed by centuries expired.
Not a stone is left unturned.
By Thursday fanaticism reaches it's zenith.
With but one day left, desperation creeps in -
if mushroom magic is the only way, then so be it...
It seems the leaves and bushes begin to morph
into something tantalising, but as yet indistinct.
Sun strobes dazzle. A peculiar hush fills the air,
as expectant eyes squint into the light.
My stomach tightens: I've just seen him
rise up from a clump of briers!
Edging forward with hammering heart,
I watch him draw his bow...
then slowly turn to bronze.
A group of gabbling tourists invade his space.
Their cameras flash, catapulting primal folk hero
into latter-day souvenir...and I, too, pass through bronze,
riding in on the lightening while time is rent
to an age where he's still flesh and blood...
and I am never, never ever coming home.
