Lay me in Wood

THE LONG ROWS OF RED-BRICKED VICTORIAN TERRACES are glaring and display white plastic front doors and large paned glass windows that serialise a soap opera played out every day. Here be a testament to commission hungry weasels chasing salesperson of the month tempting the prey into easy debt to keep up with the neighbours.

This is a row where you'd see black hooded jackdaws perch on gutters beady eyes watching.

And further beyond in the graves of fallen community terraces that once housed Victoria's subjects, condemned to stand tall grey concrete flats designed with heads in the clouds. A place cursed with the ills and woes of life, hard bullies of the vale holding their own courts. Two toppled by nature's force. Hidden dangers, undiscovered, seeping and creeping assisted by winter's onslaught.
If not damp, rain, frost or snow covering the ground, then filth and litter. Caught by the wind and gathering in piles among the decay. Many a headline free falling into oblivion and despair haunt these courts. Its foot soldiers spreading out to the surrounding streets, feral cats prowling for the next kill.
Take to the air and fly over the vale where a scarecrow watches on a hill. Leaning forward surviving a mean wind that comes and blows with force. Against an anguished sky, its tormented crucified form is in silhouette and a figure of pity with head bowed, a face grimacing and the skin the texture of sacking. Dead glassy eyes stare towards the distant footpath and the people who pass, careful they are to avoid the falling dry stone wall with its irregular line running the edge. In autumn the path is slippery. Wet leaves gather in rotting piles mulching and oozing stickiness. The grime spreads catching out the unwary. The elderly are unsteady on their feet, quick to tumble snapping bones. Noticed are these accidents by the scarecrow as well as claims direct brokers.
To the curious child imagining as he or she gazes for a moment upon it high on the hill, they are too far away to know. To know its outstretched arms are witches broomsticks padded out with hay and stuffed into a battered jacket. That the hands furnished with odd matching gloves hang broken and dead. Its hat frayed, with spiky lengths that stick up resembling a crown of straw above the brim. At its site of execution, it watches, with two jackdaws perched on each arm.
A whisper faint and frail, unheard and lost, the breath cries Mary.
The morning is bathed in a mist and laden with an autumn frosty dampness this early hour. The stone footpath unyielding on this dank day, each step of Christopher's shoes reflective and echoes beyond into the vale. It is a giveaway to the unevenness in his gait a man carrying weight upon his shoulders. There is no one appearing along the path and high on the hill a scarecrow watches him. Christopher gives it a passing glance.
"Can't stop, got a customer waiting."
Around the corner, someone about to step in the abyss on his side of the road. A frail old lady like another who had met with a fatal accident.
"Wait, do you want to cross?"
She faces him, a lost stare, turns and steps out.
"Whoa! Hang on a minute let me help you!"
A car speeds passed from out of the mist.
"I'm trying to reach my mother; she's shouting." Her voice dry and frail. "I need to cross. Isn't it steamy?"
The old lady sees something in his eyes.
"God has a special job for you..."
"Aye well, we'll see about that."
She turned to her house.
"Can you help me over this bit? Mother's calling."
He heard nothing.
Christopher led her over then made his way back across and watched to make sure she was safe. The mist drew around her. Then a door slammed shut.

end of preview