by C Cattaway
He looked back over the fields.
It seemed as though he'd walked for miles.
He passed by the screams; the anger; the tears.
He'd walked through the darkness lit only by smiles.
Three long, well tended fields.
Of course, they hadn't always been that way.
If they had, there would have been no pain,
No wondering why it had happened, that day.
He continued to stare. A face remembered
from the memory of a small boy, too young to know.
His father had been strong, gentle, and kind.
This child, now older, had been left alone to grow.
Once, underneath, had been the mines.
Once, hard labour,
had lined the land where he stood.
Once, the village had been filled with pride, and happiness.
Now, all that remained were the empty streets;
the if's; the could's.
That was thirty years before.
Now he stood watching his own son running in the grass,
Running in the breeze that carried the whispers of his Grandfather
Who lost his life in those mines, smiling 'til his last.
* I wrote this 14/2/99, for a National newspaper competition. Unfortunately I never heard back from them. I would appreciate any ideas..??
Submission date : 2009-07-11
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Rating : 5.0
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