Ghosts of the Greenwood by Sarah Das Gupta
high in the green canopy
leaves whisper the forest’s secrets
the green woodpecker
taps an ancient code
deep in bramble thickets
the white hare crosses
between different worlds
the undead wander lost
among deadly marshes
where the bittern
calls
fairy houses dainty deadly tempting
in oak tree groves green Death Caps
call out to the pale languid princess
the dark prince offers tender morsels
belladonna twines round beeches
her dark berries shiny voluptuous
in the moonlight the grass is silvered
the deep pool reflects the lover
ready to drink from
the poisoned chalice,
seeking romance
in ancient tales
Bio
Sarah Das Gupta is a writer from Cambridge, UK who spent time, living and teaching in
India and Tanzania. Her work has been published in magazines and anthologies in over
twenty countries from New Zealand to Kazakhstan. This year she has been nominated for
Best of the Web and a Dwarf Star Award.
Author's note
I spent my childhood in a parish on the highest point of the North Downs in South-East
England where the pattern of the fields had not changed substantially since Domesday. The
steep slopes make the use of tractors potentially dangerous. I spent much of my time riding
over the downs, through the woodland and along part of the ancient Pilgrim’s Way to
Canterbury. Viewing the countryside from horseback, the rider has the opportunity to see into
the depths of the woods and commons.
I was very alive to the changing seasons, especially to the end of summer and the coming of
Autumn, that first nip in the air, the first frost of the year and the wonderful colours of the
falling leaves. This point of change is the best time to see the traces of a much older world, a
world still known to Chaucer and Shakespeare, even to Dickens in a novel like Great
Expectations. The discarded acorn cups, the skirt of a fairy dress seen in the gleaming
gossamer on the hawthorn hedges. In the fields the darker grass of the fairy rings appears with
the sudden explosion of ball-like white mushrooms. In the fields, ancient hawthorns even now
remain unfelled. Their magic doorways to the other world, still open.
