100-Word Fiction: ‘The Migrant Waders’

Maps chart tomorrows
Finding the distance
Between faultlined selves
And coordinated belongings
Closer to free

Perspectives are scythed
This heady summer
Of clear truths
Pollen strewn and
Seeds soil-felled


Butterflies skim by
Tortoiseshell, browns, fritillary
A field full
Barley, wheat, maize
Green, yellow, gold

The distant water
A silver foil
Thin behind reeds
And the woodland
Chestnut, birch, oak

A steam plume
Cooling factory chimney
Blows against horizon
And still sky
Like a cigarette


Time when weighted
Bows towards harvest
Drys leaves bronze
Looses the grain
Cracks the earth

The migrant waders
Will soon return
And call this home

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s