On Gallows Hill

Michal still laboured away.  After a few more hearty blows the tree began to creak and groan.  The chopping became uncontrollable with the copse strangely silent save the loud grunts from the woodcutter, “I’ll get you, I’ll get you,” he chanted as each cut from the blade bit deep into the trunk, penetrating the woody strands until the final crack of splintering wood echoed like gunshot throughout the copse, creating a sudden rush of startled feathers as birds took frantic flight to escape the commotion. 

The tree landed at Michal’s feet with an earth shuddering thud.  He took a step back and paused, gazing at his morning’s toil.  He stretched his body and quickly regained his breathe.   The fallen oak lay helpless and insignificant now.   He grinned, rubbing his shoulder, letting the axe drop just inches away from his gaitered leg, “I told you I’d get you!” he hissed, stooping towards the tree’s trunk, his black hair falling round his shoulders.  He paused for a while admiring his work then triumphantly strode back towards the edge of the copse.  The sun projected his large, black shadow through the trees as he tramped with stooped shoulders.   His muscular frame was gnarled from continuous labouring with an axe. He was going back towards sanctuary, his home where his story of the triumphant single-handed battle would be retold, or where frustration of the time it took to win would be bestowed upon those who might be present.