This Place Has Teeth
Where The Wild Things Live
Everything is falling apart. So you go to the place where the wild things live.
There is a green tunnel that leads you there. At the end of the tunnel, beneath a dappled canopy of willow and ash are the shallows of the river, a pause in the torrent, a lull, a shore. But the dogs don’t like the tunnel, never have. Maybe it’s because they know the green place has teeth.
The green place is alive: shielded by giant oaks older than time, and by other ancient things that pulse in the fragmented shade, cocooned by sycamore, horse chestnut and hazel. The green place thrums with unseen life. Hidden, breathing and knowing under the damp red earth, beneath the still green waters and among the tall silent trees.
They chitter from treetops, you look up but see nothing but sombre criss-crossing branches. Wild things zig zag from trunk to trunk, faster than you, leaves rustle, thin branches bow and shake.
In the shadows between the undergrowth, a hulk of something dark watches you through solemn eyes. Your skin prickles. Insects rush in: guardians, they mean you harm. This place has teeth. And eyes. It’s alive. It’s electric. Linger too long, catch a face under the water, pause to look up as a shadow sails over treetops, the earth sinks under your weight. Listen to your gut. Move on for it longs to devour you.
