Do you remember the place where we lay our heads upon bed of root, so finely twined, a mattress made?
Where buttress root giant must have spoken with Jesus when young? Where words were spoken in hushed whisper?
Light shafts so bright they startled eyes, and made caution grow for fear of what lay beyond in such darkness?
Where mind wandered to fairy-tale where creatures ran through such place, making merry, or encroach heart with fear?
Yet, our warring no tale, just fearsome task, with moment’s respite for such gentle rest and meandering thoughts.
Making no path, moving as shadow through the dark. Lined and waiting in morning mist, the day the clouds wept their thunderous pain.
Loosed with such violence that trees groaned and wailed in sadness. The ground tried to swallow the pain, dragging all down;
Onward, step by torturous step, another taken by angry metal and mire. The wind not ours to hold but foretold of doom.
Trees and men shedding their skin and soul in violent frenzy of menacing metal and conflagration, scents of wood, battle, ordure, and blood.
Rivulets of muddy water tinged red, sweeping downhill and swallowed by jungle, a fern lay over one as blanket, while awaiting the final journey.
Night swallows all, but streaks of fire red, green and flash, screams of the unknown haunting the night, tentative motions to bring them in.
Morning breaks to find once again we are alone, fleeing in the night, leaving predator and rodent in their wake, feasting on such carrion.
Leaving you to be carried home on rotary wings, the steady beat lost in minutes, never to be seen again, salt water on stone the final farewell.
Craig Hannan 03/04/2018…
