Beneath the moss, in small confine,

Something stirs below the pines.

Enclosed by frost through winter’s curse,

Now back to life the creature bursts.

 

Sounds of spells have made him wake.

Allure of slumber hard to shake.

At last, he rocks from mossy bed,

And dons a cap to thaw his head.

 

To the doorstep of this earthen den,

He walks more slowly now than when

The squirrels – beasts – hid away their goods

And humans – titans – stocked up with wood.

 

Time for rest is over, one must eat.

He misses the berries, those fattening treats.

But nettle leaves and burdock shoots,

Are enough to fill his humble boots.

 

He scans for ‘shrooms in shaded nooks

Collecting food with patient look

He hums his tune, expects to hear

A neighbour’s voice to call from near.

 

But the paths are quiet, the woods are bare.

No neighbours pass, no kin are there.

A village bustling, now no more

How many lost? Five, six score?

 

From forest’s breath their lives depend

It’s bloom, their birth. Its fall, their end.

Bound to the magic, their fates entwined,

When the mana fades, so goes their kind.

 

This vital essence once ran deep,

In each hollow, through soil’s keep.

But now its feeling wanes, subsides.

His friends departed. No goodbyes.