Behind The Great Stone Wall

The air hung heavy with a somber mist. It was late Autumn and the mood was solemn indeed, though not without the deep beauty and reverence that ever lingers about the changing masterpiece of Fall's incendiary hues. A great forest was there, deep and dark. The trees were semi-barren, yet traces of their technicolor transformation still remained. The dense wood bordered an immense clearing of gently sloping hills, where flocks of sheep were once said to wander in unremembered days. A grand stone foundation stood at the crest of the tallest hill, some solitary unrealized dream. Men had once thought to build a magnificent mansion there, but the only remnant of their long deserted labors served only to arouse curiosity as to the origin of the lonely wall. How did it come to occupy such a still, quiet place, otherwise untouched by mortal hands? What interrupted these designs, and what became of its once inspired architects? None can now recall. It has returned itself to nature, indeed almost as if its surroundings reclaimed the elements of its construction, inviting the stone and mortar to take their place amongst the trees and flowers as steadfast members of earth's true and living realm. It has become a haven for birds and squirrels, and those curious of heart. Sitting upon its unfinished wall, one can gaze out into a vast wilderness of unbridled life, a final bastion of natural sanctity unsullied by humankind. It is perhaps one of the few remaining places for beasts to dwell in peace, undisturbed by the earth movers and city builders, the very thieves of life. There nature placidly unfolds, giving and creating as it always has, a reminder that all which was ever essentially needed has been provided, for neither price nor profit, a nurturing gift free to all. But those who deem themselves unworthy of so wholesome a gift think they must steal, they must imitate and forge sickly replicas of what existed originally in beauty and fulness. And all the vanity, hubris and mockery of man's attempt at deity might be captured in a simple comparison: the synthetic fibres of an artificial turf field juxtaposed with a pasture of verdant life, dancing with all the dynamism of pure existence. Return to the wild and be reclaimed, for therein lies vitality, resting dormant within you.

"And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil" -Gerard Manley Hopkins