Nothing was unusual about that morning. The willows swayed in a slight breeze. Freddie the cat licked his paws; the man in the suit ran for his train; and no one saw the flash in the sky. A haze descended over the town and then cleared. Then people began to notice. A fine dust had settled across the roofs, the park, the roads. Mrs Follett held a hanky to her face. Mothers screamed at children not to touch anything. Joan said it was an Act of God. Someone whispered it was stardust. At my feet, the crumbling sky was dirt.
Published by MW Bewick
Writer of poetry and place; editor and journalist. Co-founder of Dunlin Press. Books including Pomes Flixus, The Orphaned Spaces and Scarecrow are available from http://dunlinpress.bigcartel.com View more posts