I swirl the wine in my glass. There is no recollection of having poured it. My world stretches monochrome and thin. Days spin as a stone wheel to grind away all the Blacksmith has once wrought, strength of body and sharpness of mind.
Damp shirts flap in the evening breeze, drying like husks under the intensity of this Mediterranean sun.
I shake my head. It is the birds that are missing, no longer singing above the chimney.
“So they too have gone away.”
Will my house know children’s laughter again?
I’d like that. Though I’m certain I’ll not hear it.
Photo is by Marco Calabrese.
Daily Post prompt.