The Season of Figments

Perhaps Autumn is the season of figments. When what’s real is hid behind mountains of fog. It is a time when what isn’ts dance perilously close to what is. The same way the burning leaves that fall, perform their final reel with the wind. The smoke which rises from far of chimneys take the form of hands and legs.  Whilst night’s tree stetches it’s branches, allowing for one’s mind to fill in the eclipse between. 

The girl in wellington boots followed the sighing river until is passed the weeping willow, a waterfall of gold. Its fingertips skim it’s reflection. An idle gatekeeper to the forest. The girl in the wellington boots passed through, avoiding the rabbit holes which had been dotted around like clusters of flowers. The damp air haunted her, nestling amongst her hair, peering over her shoulder. 

A Stag rose from the forest, its breath coming out like the shadows of toadstools. Its antlers emerging from its head as roots from the earth. The stag does not look through her. Its obsidian eyes see the girl whose red knuckles are wrapped around a stick so tightly that her hand shook. The wind whispers the song of folk, whilst the river played alongside with melodies composed by Orpheus. Clouds shift and become selkies swimming, and maidens seeking to be sought. The girl in the wellington boots had long been able to resonate with the silence.  Fairies peer out from behind the willow, some perched on lamenting branches, their wings a tapestry of leaf and light. 

The girl in wellington boots became one of the earth tethered trees, so still that a moth found solace in the shelter of her coat. In that moment twilight draws in, entranced. A shadow of familiarity broke the surface of the mirror. A barefoot girl stepped onto the riverbank. rivulets from her hair fell and mixed with the earth. The stag looked on. The girl from the river silently waded through the grass until she was so close to the girl in the wellington boots that the moth could see the freckles of water on her eyelashes. The two girls watched each other. Brown eyes found blue. The stick fluttered against the barefoot once's hand. 

The rain bled through the serenity and slashed against the fog, tearing it to sherds. The raid washed away the girl that could have been, leaving behind the girl that is. The rain’s intrusion caused twilight to cave in on itself. The lamenting branches echoes of what once was. The girl in the wellington boots could no longer hear the wind and river’s songs over the rain hurling itself at the ground. Several flora fires fell onto the girl, yet they did not burn. The stag made its way back into the unknown. In it’s place, only a coven of brambles remained.