Burial Ground

The spirits had scaled the riverbank unnoticed, over the early morning hours, and crept into the corn field towards the cemetery with thick smoky tendrils trailing behind. Once again, they sewed together the space between the heavens and the earth. Shrouded in grey, they all came again to greet the day for various reasons- or perhaps the same.

One could almost hear their song of malcontent. The war drums of the Mohawk, their bows pointed towards the pale ones. The sorrowful harmony of two hearts forbidden to beat together, but rebellious to the end. The tired tune of those who had lived their lives long and were satisfied to die at the time, but not afterwards. The discordant overtone of those otherwise wronged, cheated and still pounding their fists in the dirt, and scratching the sky. It was a searching song, seething yet vulnerable, all in slow motion, as though only time had perished and nothing else; neither the love nor the hate, nor the perpetual will of the soul that stood for each of them there, despite their bones.

It was a sight to see from the other side of the river; like watching footage of the storming of the beaches of Normandy in black and white- and silent. I felt as though a critic upon my high place, watching a great battle and assessing as robed men blessed the dead with incense. The chill of the sight below never failed to tickle the spine of those looking down, let alone my own.

The sun had just begun to stretch out across the lake for the river below, but it was still yawning and red. I lit a cigarette, remembered the coffee in my hand, and then thought of the rough seas sure to be ahead, as it has always been my fashion to look past the obvious. I thought then of the bones that must be scattered beneath this place; beneath the waves of the lake and the silt of the riverbed, beneath the ground that sprouts life anew from the remains of those seeking something below, beneath the foot of this mountain I was standing on. I thought of where my bones might end up, and what I might be down there searching aimlessly for, as though any of it would matter then.

I thought of how sacred this land must be, where so many lay at rest- only rising to greet the sun as though it was still warm to them, and then retreat again with the mist as they found their fangs, their bones, or their sorrows instead. My cigarette had burnt out; I threw it over the edge. My coffee had gone cold; I poured it from my cup. I went home again to find my bed, resolved that my part in this ceremony would have to wait.

Reviews

[Taylor]

Your writing is eloquent, smooth and lyrical. Poetic, eerie images, good appeal to some of the senses. I will read more of your work.

[A.J.]

thanks for reading, Taylor. I haven't been posting here much lately, but I have newer material I will soon be posting, and I shall return the favor!