The Green Man is in the leaves.
The Green Man is in the stones.
The Green Man is in the earth.
The green Man is in the water.
The Green man is mysterious.
The Green Man makes merry.
The Green Man was in our imaginations before poets wrote.
Sprung from the skitter and thrustle of the wood,
giver of hazelnuts and truffles,
bringer of new growth and budding hope.
He brushes my cheek, gives me a schlag,
and hovers at the edge of the firelight.
The bats and nighthawks flutter past his smiling eye.
He is strange but not a stranger.
There is a new green man in the wood.
Try though I may, I cannot love him.
For background on this poem, go here and here
See also:The Dark Creek and the Bad River
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