Green man,
tall horned one, 
Plucked from behind the veil, 
Knelt in the void, between the worlds 
The vines fall upon him, 
The moss grows along him, 
Adorned in the spells - 
Hands clasped in prayer where he fell, 
A tear spills with the air, 
Knelt in the soil, 
Where reaches the roots 
of his of motions
Rushing to his centre, 
Extending his branches, 
Still, stationary, 
yet he dances 
Swaying with the silence 
of an ancient mode of worship 
Coiling, knelt in the soil 
Of the salt of his soul
A magic so old 
As gold