Where the Wild Things Aren’t
The creak of ancients trees shuddered softly across the countless squat crosses. The low, dark rows marking six thousand final resting places. Blossom fluttered by, a gentle gust of wind shaking it loose.
Far away, across the fields and highways, the underpass has a not atypical aroma. Half-light, piss, fear and resignation all combine in this useful cave. Useful, yes, yet ridden with dejection. A close atmosphere somehow keeps the air at bay, despite the yawing entrances.
Even here, a beach, a beautiful, rich yellow beach, the sun beginning it’s decline, after a day’s work of warming the world. A new job begins, as it dazzles those reclining with it’s own setting. Myriad colours, changing, moving, even as they progress ever darker. Yet even here, yes even here, there is little joy. Satisfaction, perhaps, a bittersweet sadness for yet another perfect day gone, lost.
The heavy machinery starts its insistant drone. The first ground is broken. all flora and fauna banished. Gleaming, new, concrete, Man is here. Wild things are not.
Today I wrote between 16:37 and 16:47. I was prompted by an idea here.
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