The light fades from the world. A cold infects the heart of humankind. Doom approaches through the darkness of the forest. The folk fear the trees, the shadows, the sun that casts them. Change mutates the bark. The ferns. The needles. The roots whisper. The seers know the nature of the thing, if not its form. The folk see its form, but not its nature. It faces them in the stream each morn, when they lean down to wash their faces.
Paddy Dobson
18th August 2021