In memory of what was and what will be
A mighty oak, once gathered around by Druids, famed for the mistletoe in its high branches, falls in the forest. Over time his limbs, trunk and roots decay. Within the trunk woodlice, grubs and beetles eat away the old, becoming food themselves for woodpeckers, flycatchers, firecrests and doormice. Outward the bark becomes covered in mushrooms, mosses and eventually grass which feed great stag, the animal manifestation of great Cernunnos.
Where the canopy of the oak once shrouded the forest floor in darkness, now blue sky hangs overhead, dotted with crows, kites and buzzards, or covered by cloud, split by lightning and the mighty roar of Taranis. At night it becomes encircled by the stars.
The hole left by the roots fills with rain and becomes a pool around which reeds, water mint and rushes begin to grow. The waters, nourished by fresh rain and the fertile soil pick up healing properties and with time and erosion the pool becomes a well, sacred to beautiful Sulis.
No ending is without a beginning, no death without rebirth. Nothing is sacrificed without reason, nothing changes without purpose.
The single oak has fallen, no matter how loved. The Grove of the Gods is born.
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