Bones
Mother’s bones. Oldest of the old. From here, you can see them, poking through her skin. In this wild, austere land, with its long racks of low cloud, scourging off the Atlantic. Where people live, not even on sufferance: they are merely ignored – peripheral, trifling.
In those last days, I want to be alone, here in the mountains of Sutherland. Merge my bones back with my mother’s. Where the last thing I will hear is the call of ravens on the wind.
#prose 2018-07-26