She sleeps, and her dreams are as green and deep as the earth she rose from. The wind through her branches gives her the deep, even breath of a maiden adrift on a sea of longing.
In winter, she would be blanketed in an even swan-white cover. At the height of summer, the day after the solstice, the sun warms her flanks with the heated touch of a lover.
Some say it is that touch and its fleeting nature that makes her seem so sad.
Meanwhile, in his bed along the copse path, her brother lies awake and plans out mischief.
Both these figures can be found in The Lost Gardens Of Heligan, a ten minute drive from St. Austell. Very heartily recommended.
We are in the west, walking strange paths and forgotten woods.
Here be Mythagos.