Friday, 14 June 2013

To Where We Belong

To where we belong

He first went there with school long ago. The teacher’s told them that the stone work was Roman, remnants from hundreds of years ago. Turned out that it wasn’t Roman at all. It was an old mill used for making first iron and then fine paper for wrapping needles. Romantic maybe – but not Roman.
When they met years later, he could not wait to take her to this place, high up the hillside in the depths of the forest with the stream trickling then rushing down from the tops. Brown, yellow and orange tainted leaves and ferns painted the background for the scene.
And she loved it too. It was an almost secret place with it’s overhanging trees and woodland walk to it, which not many used. The millpond itself lies clear, still holding secrets from times gone by. 
This day he was on his own, He had walked up the incline to the pond with his head bent against the stinging wind and rain fighting against the stinging tears that he could not hold back. He held the urn high in the air and tilted it slowly, sprinkling the ashes of the one who knew him best, into the water.

No comments: