I gaze outside, and in the garden,
Wreathed in leaves, a face of green
Looks in at me, he mouths at me:
A message that I cannot hear.
Straggly eyebrows, bushy beard;
Windswept hair – and yet, no body;
Is this vision the Green Man,
A myth? a god of olden times?
Our minds see faces, here and there,
(Survival trait: friend, or foe?)
In the clouds and in the shadows –
These old gods are everywhere.
Changes steal in, without notice.
In just one lifetime we forget.
What once was blurred comes into focus;
Mysteries banished beyond ken.
With specs on now, I look again
And now there is no man of green.
With perfect vision we see, clearly,
These old gods have never been.