The field of miracles

The silent crow approaches. My hand stretches out to clasp the last red petal, which is just out of reach. There is nothing but the dingy dank darkness as the yellow smoke curls in angelic beauty. A pirate’s flag flies over the faded field and a solitary butterfly leaves a line of silver pearls that glisten in their newness. I think of home and a life that was long ago but was only yesterday and I cry for everything that is forgotten. It is King and country but life endures.

Mike Wall – Jan 2019

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