A house. Forsaken, at the edge of an overgrown path. An ocean at its doorstep. A lost field of dry grass. A slumbering mercurial night. Wind washed, in
the rain. The rain, rain, rain…
Forest tendrils dripped and
dragged forlorn roots. Muddy steps, torn and
smothered. Waiting alone beside an iron gate, exposed. It swung like a child’s swing, on rusted
hinges.
Effortless footfalls from long ago. Perhaps hundreds of
them. Over those broken stairs that led to even more broken
doors. In the rain. That sweet, endless rain.
Green moss, resembling old man hairpieces, slid down its
broken
shingles. Cracked drainpipes rattled like rocky waterfalls.
Hawks, enviable raptors of the forest, sat in damp feathers,
on the roof peaks, calling to each other. Dawn was about to
break. Their amber eyes scanning. The hunt was about to begin.
warmth. Fields
parched and barren stretched beyond its border.
silence, except
for
the froth and bubble of wet drapes flapping in their wake.
A neglected stone fireplace
emitted its final embers before ceasing to function. Someone had been there. Someone, in the murky
hours. Someone passing by.
Ashes covered the broken hearth. The house breathed
heavily. It remembered. Woken at last by starlight in the old
fire. It remembered what it was like before winter’s frigid goodbye.
Someone had lit the fire. Alone in the cold. Then wrapped in the old
drapes, had sat before its low flames. Smoke
drifted through the vacant rooms.
Time pondered. In
the rain. Waiting for Someone.
The rain gurgled, then dwindled, drenching the house while it
waited. In the rain.
