Member-only story
Lost Realm
deciduous drama
After the deed was done, the rigs and polesaws taken down, they laid you to rest upon a bed of dark nettles. Your severed limbs pointed west, towards the loyal redcoat standing on the border of your terre verte, guarding the last letter waiting to be collected.
The signs of execution are still livid. I’ve tried to decipher the life lines exposed for all to see. Your mystery will never be solved, it may as well be a blank quarto page, left open to tragedy rooted inside a mock Tudor close.
A necklace of bindweed adorns your death-slab. Soon strangers in hi-vis will return to hollow it out and blacken the remains, as if in revenge. The ivied bench beside you, fallen into ruin more than a decade ago, mourns incognito.
A moon goddess once riddled your branches with poetry. Inscriptions curled into claws, silvering your veins, her scratches and taps leaving deeper scars than any bow and arrow. She knew all your seasons, from the burnished rustlings through winter’s tracery to the dryad swell and sway above a pool of afternoon shadows. She knew where to look for the deserted nook, blue and ragged, that whispered the first rumours of decay. Her bronzed laurels were a parting gift — now shrivelled, they still cling to your base so cruelly disconnected.
