'O Rose of Sharon!' The deeply shocked Reverend Ianto Evans shouted, his eyes turned up to the Heavens and with quivering voice asked piously, ' Did you hear that, God?'

And all because I, a poor sinner in a state of darkness, had said that certain of the thirty nine articles of faith were conceptually puerile, and hardly relevant in the twenty-first century. Much worse, I was destined to be immolated on the alter of indiscretion, when I suggested, to a theologically confused Ianto, that Calvin had, probably, been sexually abused as a child and this had impaired his deductive reasoning.

It was a stiflingly hot afternoon, too hot to be stuck indoors, levered like sardines into a whitewashed tin of a bible bashing building. The heat may have had something to do with Reverend Ianto's countenance turning deep purple - his breathing seemed laboured as well. At first I thought his coal black prayer suit, with sewn up flies, was too tight for him until he recovered and ranted on. My luck ran out.

'That word, and in the House of the Lord,' he gasped, clasping his favourite reading, the chapel bank book, to his bosom. Mortified by the slightest allusion to sex, he collapsed, but not before I was expelled. My luck had returned. The incident certainly synthesised my interest in exotic flowers, so much so, I have become a martyr to Horticulture.

Seeking clarification I asked my Great Aunt Mary, 'Have you seen Rose of Sharon?' I was hoping she could enlighten me.

'Not a Catholic, was she?'

It was silly of me to ask, Auntie departed this world in nineteen forty eight, after the full moon at the autumn equinox. Disgusted with the religious antics of our villagers she upped and left. A devout Pagan, she returns periodically to keep in touch. Being helpful she said,

'Let's sit here on this bench,' once comfortably seated, she rummaged in her voluminous leather bag for a small bottle which contained a greenish coloured powder, she placed a little on the back of my hand.

'Smell that,' she said.

I could hardly believe what followed – I felt as if I had entered through a door of light and there we were, both, standing on a small plateau covered by rocks the size of a football. I felt as if my body was weightless as I moved with ease over the rough terrain. I became part of a time space element of another dimension. My body merged, effortlessly, with the minuscule wave lengths that rotated in complex mathematical progression to form virtual patterns. A perfect duality existence where waves and particles became indistinguishable.

Suddenly I was back on the bench.

'What did you see? Auntie asked.

'A beautiful creation, with harmonious wave patterns - waving about like a bush,' I said. 'Was that the Rose of Sharon?' Then added, ' it looked to me like a burning bush but without fire.'

Rudbeckia stood and stared at the stone carving of The Green Man in the church wall. Neither she nor he could hear sounds or speak words but she could communicate in other ways.

The carving, which had been there for centuries, was the size of a large serving dish. It depicted a human face surrounded by a mask of curly foliage; from each corner of its mouth spewed a curvy leaf and the eyes were hollow as in a skull but with scary eyelids. It was uncanny how each time she went by those blank eyes seemed to follow her. Also, she had always wondered why the ivy leaves never grew across the sculptured features with its disconcerting expression.

Becki adored trees; she saw them as living beings, divided into family groups like humans. Soon, a number, barely a stone's throw away, might be chopped down. However, the spirit of the greenwood was only a pagan symbol so how could he help? She continued to gaze at him, wishing he could respond and when he did, he startled her. The leaves on the brow and chin shook and the facial expression changed. The eyelids moved and the nose twitched with annoyance and he mouthed, ` why stare, what dost want, child ?`

Becki hesitated, not knowing whether to use sign language or to assume he could also lip-read. She framed the words, I`m not a child, I have reached the big five-0. Then the interaction continued thus: You are a child to me. Name? Rudbeckia Rudbeckia,foliage oval, simple, flowers gold with brown centre. I have fair hair, brown eyes, no foliage. Who are you? I am the forest guardian, leader of leaves, overseer of new beginnings. Not endings? Then we are in trouble.

The eyes became dense, pained, the mouth trembled: what trouble? The trees might be cut down. Turn away, I must change. Becki averted her eyes, not wishing to embarrass a man while he dressed.

The trouble was that a firm of developers was seeking agricultural land on which to build houses. Bad enough in itself. But they also planned to cut down a small plantation of trees obstructing access to the area in question. Cutting down so many trees was like a massacre and, in her own way, Becki had told the trees what might be their fate. They gave her the impression they understood, although they couldn`t make a sound themselves, their leaves quaked and raindrops fell like tears. She promised she would do all she could to prevent such a gruesome event.

Now, when she looked again the ivy leaves had decorously covered the naked space and so she guessed that the Green Man had gone to the trees. A sudden rain shower made her run and shelter under the wild cherry in the plantation. Stroking its highly polished dark red bark, she tried to reassure it. Next to the cherry stood the rather superior holly, eight feet tall and evergreen but with a decidedly prickly temperament. She considered the hazel close by was an eccentric, nutty individual and that the elm was as common as the wych elm was refined (and had nothing whatsoever to do with witches). The pussy willow was typically feline and should never have been planted beside the dogwood. There were one or two sycamores and a field maple, acknowledged celebrities because of their autumn colour. The sweet chestnut was not related to the horse chestnut but was a relative of the beautiful beech family. But by far the most ancient and revered of the trees in the greenwood was the great company of oaks who had the family name of Quercus. They were famous, privileged and revered.

The rain stopped and a watery sun came through the clouds above the canopy of leaves. Dappled shadows played games on the long green grass and she hoped she would recognise a venerable oak that would deliver a message to her. But all was as usual and Becki went to her bed, disconsolate.

It was the morning of the next day, the first day of May. Rudbeckia joined the people who had gathered beside the plantation, waiting. Not everybody was shocked by the news of the development plan; some welcomed it as a chance for homes for young people. Nevertheless, to most of them the threat of an ugly urban sprawl was unacceptable and many considered cutting down the trees to be the absolute last option. They were waiting for the developer`s agent who was to walk around the site with the owner of the agricultural land. If the farmer sold the land and the trees, it might mean that the town, ten miles away, could creep closer gradually.

The villagers enjoyed a somewhat self-sufficient freedom. The pretty village was a thriving community; not only was there a butcher and a baker and a store-cum-post office and a small petrol filling station but also there was an agricultural engineering firm that supplied tractors and farming equipment and even a doctor`s surgery once a week in someone`s front room.

A stylish car drew up. A young man, very tall and dressed in a smart suit, got out and extricated his briefcase from the back. He locked the car with a zapper and looked down upon the small knot of villagers who clustered around him. One or two began assailing him with complaints. `We don`t want our village spoiled.`

`There is nothing you can do to stop it, the Planning Committee understands the need for houses,` he recited his obviously prepared answer.

A woman`s voice cried: `But surely you can leave the trees!`

`There`s no Preservation Order and there will be no time to get one now.`

Someone else jeered: `So you don`t care about trees.`

`They`re all very well in their appropriate places but these are expendable.`

`The field is good crop growing land…` someone wailed but he pushed past the hecklers. `Out of my way, you can take your complaints to the Council.`

Becki had prepared a written notice because she couldn`t join in the talking but she didn`t have the courage to display it. Anyway, the agent and everyone had plunged into the wood. It was dark under the trees and this seemed to make him hesitate but the crowd jostled and pushed him between the towering tree trunks. Emerging from the gloom into the soft sunshine, they all collected in a silent bunch beside the ivy-covered church wall.

On the verge between the wood and the field stood the farmer. The city gentleman asked him in a self-aggrandizing way. `Can we get rid of these people and do business in private?` His wan face contrasted with the farmer`s weather-beaten countenance. The farmer nodded, turned towards the villagers and sauntered over to speak to them.

Suddenly, from nowhere, an unexpected blast of air forced everybody to lean into the wind. The trees swayed and there was a creaking and a groaning and a racket like logs being chopped by a giant axe. Then, with an almighty thump, an overhanging limb crashed down. Right on top of the visitor. Twigs and leaves vibrated in anger and lashed out at him. The whole thing had happened in seconds and a disquieting hush ensued when nobody said a word. Then the crowd rushed forward to help him crawl from under the wreckage, horror-struck but otherwise unharmed. While nervously straightening his jacket and tie, his expression showed he was grappling with the fact that the fallen branch could have killed him. . Quickly, Becki seized her opportunity and stepped out in front. Holding up her placard so that he could read the large letters: "BEWARE THE GREEN MAN SPIRIT OF THE GREENWOOD." She read his sneering lips. His words could be translated as: such thing s do not exist but they were, in fact, vulgar to the extreme. She thought he looked so pathetic standing there, trembling like a leaf in a draught, that she wished she could have a word with him, tell him that the humans had nothing to do with the incident, explain that the spirit of the greenwood had dealt him the blow. But the quivering businessman left the place in a hurry, accompanied by the farmer and the people, back through the dark wood to his car. Subsequently, the good news was that the developer had given up the idea of business with the farmer and the whole thing was dropped.

Becki ran up to the church wall where the ivy had parted again to make a space. She witnessed a small avalanche of stones and the face of the Green Man appeared once more. His mouth formed the words: A ll`s well that ends well .