All is still. The snow blankets the branches. The ice covers the lake. The frost encloses the air. A mountain sits, unshifting, as the tides of time cease to flow around it. The lark is silent. The waters are dark. There are no fish to trace circles below our feet. No ears to listen to our crowded thoughts. No voices to speak against our many desires. Just stillness. And silence.
A snap as a twig breaks and snow is shaken loose from its moorings. A warrior emerges. Black armour. Antlers protrude from his helmet. A red mask.
Our face.
He stalks across the ice, hand resting on the hilt of his blade. He does not see us, but he knows we are here. He may cut us down in multitudes, but still, we will return. Again and again.
He does not see that he is not the mind but the eye. He is the blade and we, the hand.
Paddy Dobson
3rd November 2020