Wild cyclamen in the woods.

 

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Above the wood on the plateau a battlefield of bleached bones of stones. Walls wide, thick coarse mortar dusts where green lizards flick their tails and disappear. I try whistling a blade of grass, clamped between thumbs I blow. Silence. I try again and then remember I don’t speak the language. In patches of bare earth shards of pottery, the grooves in the clay still visible from the wheel. A rim, a lip. My fingers touch where someones once did a thousand thousand moons ago.

3 Replies to “Wild cyclamen in the woods.”

      1. The layers of history beneath your feet there is just no telling what lost stories could be gleaned – if only I were younger and in better condition I would become Indiana Dave πŸ™„

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