Standing afar I had watched.

I had watched as the orange blaze tore through the virescent carpet, its unfettered flames devouring everything in its path and leaving behind only ash and dust, which the treacherous wind carelessly tossed around like shimmering red and black confetti, rising like plumes of darkness and misery, carrying with it the shelter and sustenance of many.

O how we had tried, but there was no calming the crimson ire.

The burning smell still lingers. What was once lush green and humming with life is now reduced to lifeless sticks of charcoal, the sound of stillness as unmerciful as the roar that has passed. I send a prayer for the displaced.

There is no escaping the pain of loss and death, or the yearning for the green shade and the noise of the creatures that had dwelt therein. Yet I know that nature is resilient. It is a cycle my people have seen before. It is the way of life. This is what happens when lightning strikes parched undergrowth.

 


Written for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers based on photo prompt by Yarnspinner

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7 thoughts on “The ash of dreams

  1. Loved your painting of moors burning. I see the moors being fired each year, and worry for the the indigenous wild life.

    Like

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