Jack o' the Green (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
jack_inthegreen) wrote2005-03-29 04:06 pm
jack_inthegreen) wrote2005-03-29 04:06 pm
Musings
In the old days, the people left sacrifices to me in the forest of grain or eggs, left at the foot of oak or hawthorne trees. I was spoken of in hushed tones--a friend to mankind, but not one to be trifled with, for as bringer of rain I could also bring storm and flood, or withhold rain until the fields turned brown.
(But this was Britain when the world was young--a land of slow rivers, cool mists and green hills. I rarely punished my followers. I am not a god of vengeance and fear.)
Other gods came, as they always do, with greater powers and gleaming temples; who demanded greater sacrifices of flesh and blood; who demanded circles of stone be set to echo their creations and encompass their powers. My name was spoken less and less, until one day no man lived who remembered it.
Even if they had forgotten my name, though, they remembered me, the green man in the trees, the young man on the first day of spring, the boy of May Day who dressed in greenery and was dunked in the lake so that the rains came. Even when the hymn-singing Christians came (and who is not to say that the man Jesus is not another aspect of me, another He-Who-Rises-Again) the people knew my face and worked it into their closed stone churches.
I am a god with no name, but no name is needed when the farmer prays for rain and a good crop; when the mother whispers blessings to her sleeping child; when kits tumble about each other; when the slivers of grass are green and soft. Every sunrise is worship of me. Every small, new thing is under my protection. Every spring is my season.
(But this was Britain when the world was young--a land of slow rivers, cool mists and green hills. I rarely punished my followers. I am not a god of vengeance and fear.)
Other gods came, as they always do, with greater powers and gleaming temples; who demanded greater sacrifices of flesh and blood; who demanded circles of stone be set to echo their creations and encompass their powers. My name was spoken less and less, until one day no man lived who remembered it.
Even if they had forgotten my name, though, they remembered me, the green man in the trees, the young man on the first day of spring, the boy of May Day who dressed in greenery and was dunked in the lake so that the rains came. Even when the hymn-singing Christians came (and who is not to say that the man Jesus is not another aspect of me, another He-Who-Rises-Again) the people knew my face and worked it into their closed stone churches.
I am a god with no name, but no name is needed when the farmer prays for rain and a good crop; when the mother whispers blessings to her sleeping child; when kits tumble about each other; when the slivers of grass are green and soft. Every sunrise is worship of me. Every small, new thing is under my protection. Every spring is my season.