Graveyards

Every three feet, you feel the crush of melancholy. The season is black, the humour is dark, the bile is like atrament. But when you were in it, it was golden.

If such a thing lived, it would be a monster. It does, and it is. But it does not bury as much as it fertilises, for even monsters can be made into blessings, and even death can be turned to life.

Soon, it has been heard. Soon. This is a word that sounds like the hiss of the sea returning, not quite in a crash of waves, but in the first breakers as the tide rolls back in. Soooooon.