He'd made a sword from sticks and cord, and ran through the trees chanting warrior cries. Little feet left scattered imprints in the muddy pools that laced the woodland floor, and in-between each cry a happy stream of song filtered through the sky. Then suddenly, without warning, he froze.
The scene before my eyes was like a print forming as a polaroid dries... no sound, aging colours, mist hanging heavy all around. And i found myself gasping, trembling, awaking from another grieving dream... my insides longing for this child again, longing for the promised morning, when joy replaces pain.
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