The Flight
By chant
- 1299 reads
We journey light, no goods to load us down, a thousand strong, blend with the shadows in the dusty fields, on the dry plain, where no cicadas saw their drowsy violas, sleep on the sand. We have walked forty miles, we have left our homes. ‘They won’t mind us,’ calls a grey-scarfed woman with a baby that cries and cries. They think we won’t work; we can work, we want to work, we want to see green shoots. Under nameless skies we’re living the ghost life, nothing to lose. We cannot go back.
Shouts in the dark, where no frogs belch and skitter, here are lapping waters. ‘Take us!’ One boat, one boatman eyes a scrub of coin-clutching hands. ‘You must go back,’ he says, ‘where you came from.’ Gasps, the stamping of feet, a baby that will not stop crying. Like bags of wool some slump to the ground and slowly rock themselves. But we young men shrug – it’s nothing to us. It’s been a tough trip and we’re strong. We make off through the gloaming hunting driftwood for a craft, combing the bare shore of Acheron.
@ianjmclachlan
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'where no cicadas saw their drowsy violas'. I wish I'd written that.
This is a fabulous piece of flash.
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