A Midsummer Tale - Draft 1

A Midsummer Tale

My son, my son
I bid thee woke
For e'ry boy
Must end his run
Through wooded oak
An' blesséd joy.

My son, my son
Thine time has come
A man doth wait
For it's begun
Calm an' fearsome
He knows thine fate

My son, my son
Take heed advice:
To put an end
To spritely fun
Thine sacrifice
Must we attend


          He walked through the forest, its shimmering greens parting for him as they always had when he passed but this time there seemed to be a solemn reverence in their movement--this time they were genuflecting. The clearing was ahead; he could both see it and feel it. It was a palpable presence, an unmistakable tension. He knew he ought to run. More accurately, his instincts demanded that he turn around and dive deep back into the forest. He could go back to jumping wildly throughout the canopy, free-falling idly from on-high only to swing himself up before touching ground, he could continue his daily pranks on the lakeside beavers whose dams slowed the rivers and stagnated the pools downstream and who, he thought, took themselves much too seriously. He could go back to teaching the birds how to sing, taking idle naps in the darkest caves midday, and racing any stag from end to end, if he found one brazen enough. In fact, he was quite sure he would be able to do anything he wanted until the last star in the sky fell to Earth, if he would only just turn and run back.

         But, he knew he wouldn't. He knew he couldn't. He was compelled to keep moving towards the end of the lush green forest.