bluebell mayday magic 017

Cold starlight and winter winds, the only caress on a faded cheek. Memories slither through the gaps in the trees to people the night. She hadn’t walked this path for a long time. The first time, she had been young; half a smile at that, bitter now, an uneasy motion of lips that have forgotten softness. Weakness! The softness, or the forgetting? She wonders, just for a moment, shrugging off the answer. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters any more. Just one more nail in the coffin.

She is too old for this.

Even the spade is too heavy. Cursing arthritic hands, she uses it as a cane instead. At least it has rained. The ground will be wet…

Through the broken gate and into the wood. There would be bluebells in spring. Now, though, the place looks forlorn, draped in ivy and the last brittle leaves. The sack hits a stone. She winces. It is getting too much for her, but there is no-one she could ask for help. No-one left.

She had never asked. There had never been anyone who would have understood. So she has never told…

A fallen trunk gives her a place to rest. Warm breath makes ragged ghosts in the night. She would have to stop soon… maybe this will be the last time she would visit the wood. Or… maybe not.

bluebell mayday magic 077

Not far now. Her handiwork begins to surround her. Exotic trees of all ages flower out of season, the planting of half a century makes a spiral of colour in the moonlight of the little clearing. Children play here in summer, finding fairyland under the blossom, poets find inspiration in its delicacy and lovers a secret bower of beauty when the moon is full…
For a little while she walks through the trees, reaching out a hand to caress the bark , the tenderness of a lover in her fingertips. She can lose herself in memory here…

Not tonight, though. Soon the frost will come… there is another tree to plant…

Weary already, she carefully cuts the turf and lays it beside the sack… winter green against the fragile pink branches that peep from its opening. When she is done, the sapling will grow undisturbed. Evergreen, this one. It will outlive her, she knows. She breaks the earth and begins to dig. Deeper and deeper. A satisfaction in the ache of muscles long accustomed to the work. Slower though, now… after a lifetime…

Finally it is deep enough. Just wide enough for the roots to be spread, but deep, very deep.

She drags the sack closer, taking out the sapling and gently spreading root and branch she lays it aside. It will be a beautiful addition to her secret garden. Then she tips the body head first into its narrow grave. He’d lasted longer than the others… she thought, as the earth closed over him. He deserved an evergreen…

x sheff jan 082

About Sue Vincent

Sue Vincent is a Yorkshire-born writer and one of the Directors of The Silent Eye, a modern Mystery School. She writes alone and with Stuart France, exploring ancient myths, the mysterious landscape of Albion and the inner journey of the soul. Find out more at France and Vincent. She is owned by a small dog who also blogs. Follow her at scvincent.com and on Twitter @SCVincent. Find her books on Goodreads and follow her on Amazon worldwide to find out about new releases and offers. Email: findme@scvincent.com.
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9 Responses to Evergreen

  1. willowdot21 says:

    Some magic makes dark demands. This is a lovely story, beauty from death, that’s the way of Gaia . 💜


  2. Alli Templeton says:

    Beautifully crafted and intriguing story, Sue.


  3. joylennick says:

    Clever one, Sue… Well done. x


  4. quiall says:

    oooh Loved it!


  5. Widdershins says:

    I like this twisty side of you. : )


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