Tuesday, 11 September 2012
The Longest Day
The Longest Day
Wild grass and weeds had grown up; reclaiming what was once evidence of six thousand years of technological advances. The first pale fingers of daylight pried open the vault of night and the others began to take shape, forming from the mist like wraiths. Their robes swirled about them but their hoods were pulled low and ensured anonymity; even from each other. This had been the centre of everything, a civilisation’s crowning glory. Now remnants lay scattered across the plain like some petulant child’s toys. I was glad that my own hood could hide tears not entirely caused by the freshening breeze. We had got here early; got here first. But, as we knew they would, the enemy also assembled. From the road they approached, dark clad to our light. Their ordered lines mocked our rag tag confusion. Tramp, tramp tramp, their booted feet struck the ground and the very stones themselves seemed to shiver. They came on in ranks, raising their weapons as they drew near. I wept truly now as I saw that we would fail again thanks to them. The ritual could not be completed for another year. Did they not know? Did they not care? They closed with us. I could not see their eyes. Rough, unfeeling hands grasped at me, holding my arms, knocking my staff into the weeds. I was swept off my feet and, as I was dragged away, I saw the first full rays of the Summer solstice sun rise above Salisbury Plan and return the stones of the henge to mystical glowing life.
This was posted in response to Wakefield Mahon's Motivation Monday prompt 'Dust Thou Art'