"A wounded shadow
slips between stoic trees, silent canons.
Calls his loved one's name.
One bloody hand
grasps a saber, the other's
this old battlefield's evening light
plays games, its trickling brook a portal…"
We rustle through dampened, rotted leaves.
I insist we seek soldier's reflection;
chuckle as my kids scamper.
by Margaret Bednar, January 16, 2104
These are a few images I took the other day of a nice walking/hiking place nearby - a small revolutionary battlefield that is now a National Park.
This is linked with G-Man's "Friday Flash 55" - a story (or poem) in exactly 55 words - no more, no less and with dVerse "Meeting the Bar - Verbs!" Tried to stay in present tense, use more verbs.