Walker in the Woods

Looking deep into the drab recesses of the evening wood is to look into the moonless flat night. The greens and browns are diluted into greys and shadowy blacks. Walking therein unfurls the details of trunk and branch and variety, like a slowly focussing eye after deep sleep, many haunting shapes of faces and night creeps are stolen quietly from the imagination by familiarity and proximity and recognition. In that coliseum of spired darkness there is life, from the crack of branch under foot, to flaps and rustles as frightened birds flit from perch to safer perch to avoid the unwelcome interloper. Silence moves and then breaks, scurrying can be heard if one only has the patience and quietude to just wait and see. It is a kingdom of the unseen, of the invisible, the camouflaged and consequently of fear.  Fear is strong when inspired by the unknown, or worse the unknowable, for that is the fuel that feeds the unlit echoing cave of the mind. The woods at night are mystery, amazement and fear rolled into dark corners and unclear sharp shapes. It is the playground for the mind’s wicked temptations, yet it is just the woods at night; they are not foreboding evil, they are not haunted nor are they prowled, except by us, for we are the monsters here, we are the things we should fear.