The Not-So Green Man

Spring arrived and on the village green an old man stood beneath the bower of a tree, admiring the sweet new leaves. 

‘Why’s he standing there ?’ I asked. ‘A meeting ? A secret rendezvous ?’ 

‘Who knows ?’ came the answer.

He was broad, this man, and looked well-travelled. Bearded, with long wiry hair, he wore a greatcoat that had seen better days. He paced to and fro as if tormented by loss – haunted, perhaps, by something deep in his past.

Spring turned to Summer. Summer turned to Autumn. Winter caught her breath. Still he waited. Dead leaves swirled around him, coveting the north wind's embrace. Yet the old man remained.

‘Doesn't he get cold ?’ I said. ‘Where does he sleep ?’

‘He sleeps beneath the tree’ came the answer, ‘with one eye open.  And as he sleeps the children lay food beneath the branches. They call him the Not-So Green Man’.

Soon the branches of the tree were frosted with ice. He blew into cupped hands, cheeks red as the Christmas berry, shoes sodden, his coat in rags, pockets filled with dead, brittle seed.

One night I saw his silhouette. The moon and its canopy of stars illuminated his face. The tree had become a Not-So Green Man.

At last, Spring arrived - shook her dusty curtains in the sun. The tree sparkled with tender green buds. The villagers sang, danced - washed their faces in new light. ‘Now we can feast’ they said ‘eat and drink our fill.’

A year has passed by and I have learned many things. I wish, now, I had spoken with the Not-So Green Man. Today I’ll lay a wreath in his memory, sit for a while beneath the bower of the tree.

The Not-So Green Man was waiting for me.