Ghosts of the Battlefield

Listless touches graze me as I pass over the wooden bridge, clouds dancing before a three-quarter moon, about me misty faces form and dissipate in the blink of an eye. The musty, briny scent of the marsh hangs on the air like a heart spoken broken promise, tattered flags wave in the mist on this deathly still night. As I enter the uneven field, images of bayonet strikes and muzzle blasts float before my eyes, I can almost hear the cannon fire, smell the acidic smoke, feel the concussive blast rattle through my body. Swirls of blue and grey pass in the fog as I skim the edge of the woods, off in the darkness, on a hill, with a rusting wrought iron gate crosses are silhouetted on the night’s canvas.