The Bombings

Mortar rounds, plummeting to the grounds. High velocity, undodgeable. Whether they're hefty, or miniscule, they'll get you. Washing away the evidence, that of small life. Bombarding objects, they rupture, sending shrapnel in every direction. They make little noise, these mortar rounds. All one can hear, is the patter of the barrage, the onslaught of an unknown assailant. Against your windows, those of your house, and those on aeroplanes, cars, and buses, the rounds proceed. Unable to advance any further. Impermeable to this blitz. After the attack, shrapnel is everywhere. Darkening that which did not resist, collecting together on those that did. The odour of the ammunition, earthy and fragrant, wafts reluctantly through the air. All is quiet, no birds, no squirrels. Copious miasma drifts off the pale pavement, the heat being released in a bare moment, flowing lazily over the earth, occupying every corner, ever space. Finally, a single finch braves the silence, nattering gingerly her song. At once, the land is filled, once again with noise. The bombing is now all but forgotten.