She walked in the forest as she did every day. The path worn flat, black char pounded into obsidian. The wind sang its forlorn dirge, toneless for want of leaves to play in. Her fingers brushed the bark, searching for life but knowing none would ever come again to the tall, lonely sticks. Once life surrounded them, the mighty mountain ash favoured all who saw them. Now they stood, rooted in their graves, that same place where their green breath once filled the forest with life. Their sooty shrouds crumbled at her touch, and her heart matched their sorrow.
She called, now and then, for her child. Voice echoed in the death-ridden silence. Life was gone: from the earth all around to the black emptiness within her, there was no song, no laughter, no play.
Tears resumed their usual course, cleaning tracks down her cheeks, dripping slowly into the burnt earth. One by one they soaked into soil forever changed by one day of heat and terror. The day Hades rose from his lair and scorched the land, the air, the sky, taking with him all life – her child’s life. She cried without pause or effort, for her soul was rent with grief. The land she loved and cared for was gone, but that loss was nothing when placed next to the loss of her child. Hope had crumbled to ash. Nothing remained but to give herself over to desolation.
She walked in the forest as she did every day. The sky cried with her, the wind mourned too and its chill touch turned her tears to snow. They lay on the blackened ground, clung to withered limbs that pointed accusingly at her. You didn’t protect us, whisper the broken trees. White on black, a blanket that couldn’t hide the pain and loss, it accentuated the hurt that raged within her. Life would never come again.
She walked in the forest as she did every day. Her path well worn, her feet found the same places day after day. Her tears fell in the same little craters – tiny holes pockmarking the trail of sorrows. Unseen, a tiny seed, flung wide on the lonely wind, found its way to one of these holes and settled. A fresh tear landed upon it, nourished it and deep within something stirred.
She walked in the forest as she did every day. Her heart skipped and fluttered, thrown out of its heavy grief. There were footprints on the path. Pressed lightly into ashy earth over her own – now deep – prints was the faintest brush of little feet.
Movement tickled her senses. In this wasteland where naught had moved since that day of loss, a flick of tail feathers brought her stumbling around a bend in the path. She moved cautiously, hope choking her breath from her. There! A sound of scratching, a flutter of brown, a call: the crackling crumble of flames, a vain cry from one who sought the company, the comfort of another, mimicking the last great sound from that destructive day.
There, in the middle of the path, a lyrebird rooted around the blackened stump of a tree. Green shoots rose up out of the once-dead earth. Above, the trees shimmered with life renewed: delicate red-tipped leaves reached into the air. The wind brushed her face, warmed her, and dried her tears.
She called, now and then, for her child. Voice echoed in the death-ridden silence. Life was gone: from the earth all around to the black emptiness within her, there was no song, no laughter, no play.
Tears resumed their usual course, cleaning tracks down her cheeks, dripping slowly into the burnt earth. One by one they soaked into soil forever changed by one day of heat and terror. The day Hades rose from his lair and scorched the land, the air, the sky, taking with him all life – her child’s life. She cried without pause or effort, for her soul was rent with grief. The land she loved and cared for was gone, but that loss was nothing when placed next to the loss of her child. Hope had crumbled to ash. Nothing remained but to give herself over to desolation.
She walked in the forest as she did every day. The sky cried with her, the wind mourned too and its chill touch turned her tears to snow. They lay on the blackened ground, clung to withered limbs that pointed accusingly at her. You didn’t protect us, whisper the broken trees. White on black, a blanket that couldn’t hide the pain and loss, it accentuated the hurt that raged within her. Life would never come again.
She walked in the forest as she did every day. Her path well worn, her feet found the same places day after day. Her tears fell in the same little craters – tiny holes pockmarking the trail of sorrows. Unseen, a tiny seed, flung wide on the lonely wind, found its way to one of these holes and settled. A fresh tear landed upon it, nourished it and deep within something stirred.
She walked in the forest as she did every day. Her heart skipped and fluttered, thrown out of its heavy grief. There were footprints on the path. Pressed lightly into ashy earth over her own – now deep – prints was the faintest brush of little feet.
Movement tickled her senses. In this wasteland where naught had moved since that day of loss, a flick of tail feathers brought her stumbling around a bend in the path. She moved cautiously, hope choking her breath from her. There! A sound of scratching, a flutter of brown, a call: the crackling crumble of flames, a vain cry from one who sought the company, the comfort of another, mimicking the last great sound from that destructive day.
There, in the middle of the path, a lyrebird rooted around the blackened stump of a tree. Green shoots rose up out of the once-dead earth. Above, the trees shimmered with life renewed: delicate red-tipped leaves reached into the air. The wind brushed her face, warmed her, and dried her tears.
