The Fading Wood

Scenting the air

A perfume

Rich

But will not sell its secrets

A slow soft tread

Out of the woods

Into the trees

A cool mist descends

Crouched

In the bowl of the tree

Lies a cup

Sat proudly

Amongst the gnarled limbs

The approach

It's stem heavy

In the hand

Lift to lips

Drink deeply

Swallow

Emptiness

Gaze down into

This bowl

Of sadness

There is nothing there

Not even a wood

As the protagonist

Our king

Sat proudly

In the bowl

Of a twisted tree.