The conifers gather, dense, their shadows dipping low onto the wet pine bed. A thick fog chokes the light from between their boughs. The cloying reek of decay permeates through the windless air. And past the banshee rage of the flocking crows, a high, metallic keening can be heard, alien and unwelcome in this kingdom of bark, dark and rot.
A lone swing rocks back and forth, it's seat empty.
You step closer.
It stops.
Paddy Dobson
18th September 2020