The warrior queen writes of her woods a little. Wholesome. Something to enter cautiously, but to master, and to exit in good spirits, with only a few scratches.
Then there are my woods: Wild. Predator and prey locked in dance. The natural home of witch. No one rules in the woods for long; they are tamed only through destruction.
This weekend I consider what woods are to an archangel. Are they proof of divine beauty? The setting for a walk and a talk the likes of which alters life in a pleasant manner; shelter for the homemaker? Or are they where the pagans are still harboured, following their rites unbecoming to an ordered universe?
I have built one bed of iron, but the next will be of wood, and the wood will not be so polished, but shaped with wild beauty and still a little bark.