Beneath The Tree

In a far away field, there stood a tree,
Every day I would walk along the lane,
Looking across the fields to the tree.
It seemed to call to me, to beckon me,
To run across the fields and visit it.
One summer’s day I could no longer resist,
I set off through the field, parting the wheat as I went.
As I looked back I could see a little trail,
A line stretching back behind me,
Marking where I had been.
The tree was much further than I’d thought,
And by the time I reached it,
The sun loomed large in the sky,
Beating down on me from above,
Burning my brow and matting my hair with sweat.
The shade of the tree was so very welcome,
And as I lay down beneath its branches,
I gave no thought to my mother,
Waiting for me back home.
Surely she would be worried about me,
But all that mattered to me was that I had arrived.
There was a magic beneath that tree,
It was a special place, a place for faerie folk.
A place of dreams and legends and mystery,
A place where you could lose yourself forever.
I lay beneath the tree and did not think of home,
That place now long forgotten to me.
I lay beneath the tree and let it cover me,
In its mystery.
I would not be home.
No one would look for me.
I wasn’t lost.
I was found.

In a far away field, there stood a tree,
Every day I would walk along the lane,
Looking across the fields to the tree.
It seemed to call to me, to beckon me,
To run across the fields and visit it.
One summer’s day I could no longer resist,
I set off through the field, parting the wheat as I went.
As I looked back I could see a little trail,
A line stretching back behind me,
Marking where I had been.
The tree was much further than I’d thought,
And by the time I reached it,
The sun loomed large in the sky,
Beating down on me from above,
Burning my brow and matting my hair with sweat.
The shade of the tree was so very welcome,
And as I lay down beneath its branches,
I gave no thought to my mother,
Waiting for me back home.
Surely she would be worried about me,
But all that mattered to me was that I had arrived.
There was a magic beneath that tree,
It was a special place, a place for faerie folk.
A place of dreams and legends and mystery,
A place where you could lose yourself forever.
I lay beneath the tree and did not think of home,
That place now long forgotten to me.
I lay beneath the tree and let it cover me,
In its mystery.
I would not be home.
No one would look for me.
I wasn’t lost.
I was found.

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Ian Sharman
Ian is a freelance writer and artist. He founded Orang Utan Comics Studio with Peter Rogers in 2006, writes for their Eagle Award Nominated anthology Eleventh Hour and regularly inks for Panini’s Marvel Heroes comic.
Ian Sharman

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