She wakens, silent spirit of the forest, naked as a springtime morn safe within a cocoon of light. Slowly she rises, stretches languidly, aware of the eyes furtively watching her from the trees and luxuriating in the lasciviousness of the satyr’s gaze – as memory reminisces at the sensations. The eager touch, the fervent ministrations of the acolytes – she shivers in pleasurable recollection of the orgy of the previous night.
The old man lies dead in the shadows on the far side of the forest glade, his white robes and grey beard stained a ruddy red but soon to turn a muddy brown as decay consumes his remain to nought.
She knows this, each of them has but a brief season of precious life. So she rises, washes her feet in Winter’s blood and makes her entry into the world.
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.