Green

 Cold in here beneath the canopy, like underwater. A cavern in the depths - this viridian ocean overhead. Only the smell; vegetable bitter sweet and metal of fear or anticipation, something else, gives it away.

Two figures: one looks over his shoulder, like Lot, only it's his car, not his wife. It's his car for a while, then the place where the car was before it got eaten by the vegetation. Salt beneath moss. The other one tugs at his arm like a bell rope. Tendrils lick at his wrists, a vine beginning roots seductive and shallow already nibbling at the elbow. Or just here - the emerald ropes of vein , the delicate underside. Shivers.

"I don't think ..."

The first one is afraid. It's like an inverted Daphne and Apollo - an unlikely god , lust blind with these leaves in his eyes. The other one thinks he's some nymph, not lost in the forest.

(It isn't a forest)

"It's just here - look"

The first one squints at his watch, the dial now obscured by lichen.

This was once a building, now reclaimed. The walls breathe, secret names of trees carved there by fingernails, now bark. The other one flicks the seed of the stupid god against this wall, stands back gleeful as shoots sprout and engulf.

Or  hears him curse as brambles clutch at his shins as he clambers back to the car park  - late for something, chlorophyll stains on his knees.