The Dead

You could hear a pin drop, there is nothing. As you walk over the field nothing is left except the ruins of make-shift shelters and the wooden splinters of carts. The reckless dust makes the dying sun a hazy smudge on the horizon. By the river, the trickle of water is barely audible; it runs swiftly, desperate to escape the plains. Beyond the river upon a hill, a yellow flag stands proud, but not flying high; fallen and dormant – there is no victory in the wind. There is nothing in the air.

The field is now mapped with the bodies of soldiers. The fallen, on all sides, lay sprawled over the rocks and tangled in the gnarled wire.

I look at you and I hope for your sake that they found glory.

We must tread cautiously: not making contact with the fallen, not daring to fix upon their still, complacent faces.

Our boots squelch in red mud.  Now the air is tangy with metal.  A crow takes flight, settles on the shoulder of an upright body and cries.
    

You’re not in line with me, soldier. Stay with the group, that’s what to do now - that’s all we can do now. But you’re absent. You’re a cloud in this place, drifting amongst the fallen.

There’s a bridge somewhere, at least there should be - there was before. We need to cross the river and it’s the only way, it will be an hour's walk back to base - wait, we must carry the injured - I don't know what will happen.

Twilight arrives with its judgements. It brings a mist that roles over the plains. We’re ghosts among the dead. And up ahead your silhouette in the mist floats through the crowd.

I call you back. I am ignored. You continue your empty ramble – against my instruction.
“Jack!” The silence is broken; red pools quiver, the plains stir. “Jack!” You call again. The cry echoes through the mist: rebounding off the fallen, colliding with their peace.
“Be silent, soldier!”
“Jack! JACK!” You sob as your knees fall into the mud, “Jack…”

I wanted to tell you that you were in vain, I saw him fall.  It was like a leaf falling in a forest.

I pull you up. I push you onward.

Blue Eyes

“Don't ever lose your blue eyes, promise me.”
“I don't know how I ever could, but ok.” he laughed.
He was flicking through the photos on the camera and he was smiling. This was a nice place to be.
The blue of the sea and the green of the grass and the gold of the sand and the fading red of the sun. If he lost everything he would be happy; but his eyes – he must have his eyes. 

The Next Morning

I remember when I walked to work nearly every day that summer in drizzle, sunshine, or gales. Along the suburban streets down the main road and through the park. Thoughts of you and me and everyone else played out in my mind to the beats and drops of my music. I can't say I enjoyed it very much – especially in the rain. But the walk gave me time to think everything over.

Once in a while I was hungover and my head dropped and my feet staggered: this meant a specific melancholy. I was too small for my life and the figures, dreams and fears hung over me like the lolling trees.

The park gates opened into an expanse of fields and sporadic patches of forest. I remember reading how Adam awoke in Eden, Eve begotten, and travelled the land naming all the animals.