A poem about something my Dad once told me.

"It was a nut brown, musty mushroom smelling evening of syrupy golden light and the crisp, shiny leaves were whirling all about like clockwork mice..."

There is horror in green. For some of us, the green of a spring leaf or grassy meadow holds more terror than all the scarlet and crimson of war, or the sucking blackness of dark spaces. Green is the colour of death. It is the colour of fear. And for those of us who are left to tell the tale, it is the colour of loss.