Mark W Russell
Ghost Town
The storm has blown by; not a drop of rain to refresh the still street. If you rode side-saddle on those dark clouds and looked down on our little floral village, it must look like a garden in bloom. You’d want to pause and float down, walk quietly through the narrow street in slippered feet, breathe in the brown scent of the pub and the charcoal smell of jackdaws and the fusty odor of old plush sofas with crushed cushions. Then, satisfied, you’d launch yourself back up to your dark clouds.
Behind you, the leftover sunlight would be soft and warm as sleeping puppies.
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