No path leads to the copse
where the Dryad sleeps.
It has all grown in.
He stands as if carved in stone
in the dappled and shifting shade
beneath His canopy of oak,
attired in ivy's profusion.
Through the dense greenery
odours of moist earth rise.
A snail leaves silver track
over aged roots that penetrate the earth.
I take a forbidden glance:
amid bark gnarled by time
and asymmetrical boughs,
He sleeps on, His form barely discernable
within sacred wood and green leaf.
The small brown nostrils inhale
as He sighs in His slumber,
aware of my presence.
I am the hope he dreams of.
His anguish has drawn me here
to defend His kind with my life.
I chain myself to the living trunk
and defy the screeching saw...