The Wooden Man

He stood timber tall, taking stiff, creaking steps, stick limbs at rightangles. His ligneous ribs showed through what little flesh he had to his name. He was ditch-dirty: his skin had a coating of mud bark. His chin was a rough coppice of pine-needles, his gaunt wooden  face carved with lines of exhaustion. Under his breath he muttered secrets, his voice the cracking of twigs underfoot. The rustle of a memory was ingrained in his burnt charcoal eyes. Sap leaked from them, oozing down the lines in his face, engraving them anew.

He had once been rich and foolish. Years had made him poor and wise. He knew nothing but the greenwood, and needed no more. He had the wisdom of the birch, the age of the redwood, and the heart of the oak.

The End

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