Shadow Horn

Shadow horn
Sunday June 28, 2015
I'm not dressed for rain! I hate getting my head wet. I'm skulking in my
light cotton jacket. Selflessly, my companion gives me her baseball hat.

In the steady summer drizzle, we walk through the woods. Though drenching,
it's gently cool. The indomitable blackbird sings his head of. Dog walkers
walk quietly with their panting, scampering charges. We're searching for
somewhere to do some magical work.


Here's the perfect space at the foot of an enormous oak tree. Its branches,
thickly leaved, offer a pretty solid protection from what is steadily
becoming a downpour! Settling at its roots, we cast our circle.

I am in a network of tunnels under the woods. They curve and twist between
the roots of the great trees. I snuffle about, finding my way up between
the roots of the tree. Here, I lie as though snuggled under an earth duvet.

The shadows of branches, or are they antlers, cross my face. Where the pain
is, I feel their dark soothing touch; though shadows cannot be felt.
, Above me, a latticework of dark branches criss-cross the light sky. But
are they branches? They twist and turn like antlers against the brilliance
of a late June day.

To my left, something moves through the holly bushes. Hooves stamp;
breath, heavy but comforting.
What is that? Something shining and white, different from the presence that
feels as though it is gazing down at me. The latticework shifts and sways;
the rain falls heavy from the leaden sky.,

A man talks loudly on his mobile, while his dog crashes through the
undergrowth. My companion stands up and moves between the holly bushes and
the oak tree. She's snorting like a horse, I think. Is that in response to
the man on the mobile, or something else?
As though my skin is a transparent mask, and I looking out into the world
through it, I see the latticework of antler shadows, mimicking the shape of
the trigeminal nerve. The shadow lies down over my face as though to
shelter me. Where I am conscious of its dark touch, I have no pain.
My heart is filled with love. The shadow caress, though only the place where
light is not, is gentle, loving. The rain slicks my warm skin. I have no
pain. I have no pain.
Relief dances with joy. This is all I need, the shadow of the horned one and
my beloved trees. As though charting a map, millimetre by millimetre, skin
cell by skin cell, trigeminal nerve, knotted like sizle string, (I like to
think,) is green with the coolness of the shadow touch. Remember this;
remember this , I tell myself.
Leaving the shelter of our tree is hard. I get up and lean against it's
strong solid reassurance. The rain-wet perfume of the wood dances on the
breeze,bows curteously to the smell of damp bark, and the odour of last
year's leaf-mould. Beautiful wet summer wood smell, consciously I comit it
to memory too. For ever it will be associated with pain releif.
I want to sing. I don't have a song. Oh but the tre is singing a growly
song, like trees always do. I've no idea of the words but it's low ponderous
rasping, as though coming from deep in the bowels of the earth, is like a
rough hand caressing my cheek.
I have no pain!As I notice this, I know I am being cared for.
Bowing to the tree, the presence moving between the holly bushes, we return
to walk through the rain to the cafe.