Cone

Cone
Down beneath the pine tree a twisted branch stuck a wooden horn up
through the grass. And upon the tip of the white knarl climbed an ant.
Ben slipped and caught his hand on the branch. The ant was dead and
Ben's hand bled. Elsewhere a comet shot across the dark side of the
globe. 'Is this the only way home?' thought Ben as a gem of blood
struck the ground at his feet. With that he struck off into the forest,
a squealing trapeze of birds and wildlife choreographing his progress
from the sky.

It was two hours before another ant found its dead comrade. Yet no
sooner had it done so than a watchful starling, returning from the
carnival of the lost walker, pecked it up. Something red and gleaming
cought its eye too. Another peck and the last glistening trace of the
human had gone. The starling twisted its head to pick up a distant
sound. This was a quiet woods - not on the way somewhere or a shortcut
anywhere.

Through the eye of a needle floating in a tangle of branches, the
starling made out a distant flash of blue. Kingfishers didn't come here
so far from water so this was strange indeed. Stranger still, a metal
insect rasped and then came the sound of falling rain. With the sound
of the rain a hundred thirsty roots reached up through the mulchy
floor. The man zipped up his flies and scurried back to the more pathed
reaches of the woods. The roots retreated from the salty damp, before
quietly changing their minds and supping the spongey ground dry.

A branch twitched back into place across a makeshift path. There are no
paths here only different ways to become lost. Does it take this long
to reach this state of mind? It can do, yes I'm afraid with some people
it can take this long or indeed even longer. But what if I were to
point out someone who isn't happy being lost. Look. A black beetle spat
purple venom at a nosy serpent. Yes but beetles are not people.

If I press my finger nail hard into the wood at the stile then I can
leave an imprint. Then when I'm gone water quietly collects in the tiny
groove. A spiky spore of mould lands in the damp nick. Three years pass
and the myceleum rip the post apart. In three years more the stile is
no more.

Like I said before, but you didn't hear me, you can come to the forest
but don't expect it to remember you.