It falls with a fury. Nature a mad painter Pollock-like tossing, swirling white specks of paint to cover the green canvas of earth. Leaving streaks of greys and blacks intercepting branches that curl and mean something. Is it insistence of life? An underlying theme that all can be whitewashed, but truth will not hide?
I enter the painting, leave tracks of my readership in snow on the walk. Close doors behind me, rev up the bright orange flame to lick up in heat. And hide within, as the truth.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology