Grove of the Steel Plate

[Crow]

The Grove of the Steel Plate

As I descend the spiral staircase,
the sound of my echoing footsteps
is swallowed by a cacophony of noise
rising from a hidden chamber
where gears grind and steam hisses
like the exhalations of a mighty dragon.

Reaching the bottom, I am home.
Others are here,
druids encased
in an armored egg.
It is a grove of sorts:
The Grove of the Steel Plate.

And like all groves,
The Grove of the Steel Plate
has a tree, a lonely little thing,
growing in a small hill of dirt
someone had thrown in a corner
on the cold metal floor.

A fluorescent light paints
The Lady of the Forest's white bark
with an unhealthy palor.
Her branches droop, and I think
for the first time that she looks
a little forlorn.

She is talking, but I can only hear her voice
when I stand very close.
She is not loud enough to compete
with the unending clatter of the machines
and the shrill cries of orders given
about which lever to pull or what button to push.

Finally I hear her words:
"Turn off the machines."
"It's too noisy in here."
"All this is unneeded."
"The world above is a good place."
"You're all taking this too seriously!"

I turn to go.
I have buttons to push.
I have people to persuade.
I have people to save.
This is the place from which the world is run.
This is very important business.

And then the tree makes an anguished wail.
At last all is quiet. The steel echoes her words:
"You are killing me.
I need fresh air, and water, and sunshine.
But I cannot leave
without your help."

And so strong hands wrapped round
her slender trunk, and with a mighty pull
The Lady of the Forest was uprooted.
In formal procession she was borne
back up the spiral staircase
and out into the night.

We took her to a faerie place
and dug a hole in fertile soil.
We planted there our little tree
and blessings then we gave her.
In unison we turned away
and descended again the spiral path.

But the Grove of the Steel Plate
was not the same
without that one bit of greenery,
and although the gears still hummed
and the voices still cried,
some noticed what had been lost.

After much argument,
a committee was formed.
A decision was reached.
Cutting torches were wheeled in.
Blue flame was directed.
A window appeared high up on a wall.

Thick bulletproof glass
covered the hole,
and steam from the machines
fogged the glass,
but a natural light
gleamed down from above.

By climbing a ladder
set up for that purpose
a druid could climb to the window,
and using a corner of his robe,
he could wipe at the glass
and peer out.

And there he would see
a field up above,
and a birch tree is growing,
no longer sickly,
after constant exposure
to clean water and air and light.

And then he might see
the thing he'd been missing,
what hadn't seemed right:
Leaves that were stilled are now moving,
at last they are shining
in the gleam of ethereal light.

[Kat Lady]

This is Fantastic! Such imagery. I can see the tree in pain, see the people with heavy hearts. Wonderful work, Crow!

[Wolfwalker]

Crow, you may well have a future in writing!
bb, Peter