Traces

The thrush bobbed out from under the Milkwood tree, hopped across the grass and stabbed at the mossy stone with its dull orange beak. Flapped off with a trapped grub which writhed a farewell wave. The sun rose on the enclosure for the midday matinee of leaf-shadows dancing and gnats rolling over each other in the air.

Beneath the damp soil a small hand brushed at the silver brooch pinned to the frayed cotton and lace pinafore. Inside the brooch, the intricate workings of a tiny clock had long-since become a matted mess of metal, trapping time eternally at 3.15.

The mulch the box had become shifted with the movement, and there was silence.

Up above, the vandalised stonework could only hint at the tragedy below, leaving the history untold. Green dipped in the cracks where lettering had once been carved, the dates alone suggesting tears and disappointment.

The blue expanse birthed a ball, which skipped across the space, bouncing off the low walls. There was laughter as a child leaped over and picked it up, and a man followed, breathing heavily. He was laughing as he sat on the grave, a smooth seat in a pleasant place.

Somewhere, out of sight and beyond the road, two crows fought over a carcass amid the criss-cross of tracks left by the hooves of the horses.