Grey storm clouds gather, a black armada that promises no rain. Helicopters grasshopper-leap above the searching fingers of flame, their red and gold carapaces glittering like jewelled bugs; their belly loads of water will never quench the fire’s thirst.
Summer rages, unchecked, while we dream of winter.
A dream, a prayer, a memory.
We dream: winter rains falling, frost blanketing the forest, now burnt black.
Ash.
Black and grey.
An alien world beneath the sunrise, the trees blackened stumps, skeletons.
An eerie silence falls.
Then we hear the whisper of flames, burning beneath the bark.
We dream of winter’s rain.
Author bio: Chris White is an author living in Brisbane, Australia. His words have been published both as ones and zeros and as ink on dead wood. More of them can be found on his blog: http://chriswhitewrites.com.
...the whisper of flames, burning beneath the bark
ReplyDeleteGorgeous.
Very nice, taut piece, with tragedy in every line.