Darkwood

 

Darkwood

 

One path, overgrown, often lost, ever darkening.

They must bear their burdens onward,

Death stalks behind them.

The forest deepens.

Here winter’s hand was laid long,

That grip now never loosens.

The damp and the gloom are one,

The cold worsens both.

This is the Darkwood,

One ventures here only in direst need.

This is the Darkwood,

None return from here unscathed.

This is the Darkwood,

Some never return at all.

This company hazards the path for one thing:

Coldmoss.

Only here does it grow,

Only it cures the dreaming fever.

The sickness has raged through,

Without coldmoss,

More than half the village will succumb.

Now they brave the Darkwood,

Now they trudge the path heavy laden.

One dares not leave this trail,

The forest,

Or the Shadowfolk that live there,

Will claim those foolish enough to try.

So, they plod deeper,

To the clearing spoken of old.

There sits a Shadowman,

His head crowned

With intertwined vine and staghorn,

And behind him many folk.

In their hands each holds the coldmoss,

One by one they advance.

Now the company offers goods:

Woolen cloaks, knives, kettles, even clever toys,

One by one, the folk choose what they desire,

Then fade between the trees only they may navigate.

At last, only the chieftain remains,

Empty-handed,

But still chooses for himself a burden-beast,

Then he too is swallowed by the Darkwood.

No words have been exchanged,

None are spoken now.

The mission is complete,

The village will survive its scourge.

They leave as quickly as they may:

This is the Darkwood,

They will not linger.

This is the Darkwood,

And though it be cold and full of dread,

It has its own purpose.

This is the Darkwood,

And they will put it behind them…

Until needed again.

 

Cliff Lake 12/27/2024

Copyright © Clifford Lake 2024