Moonlight feathers treetops reveals hill slopes, shadows gullies sketches out my beautiful moors Where lone headlights angle skywards twist along the high road. I watch at the window on this cold night as the car winds along towards us praying (to whoever may or may not be listening) that traitor Moon will not glint on my rifle barrel.
Gripping the gun with amateur’s nerves, I reach for Eva’s hand and we hold our breath while a child cries fitfully from another room We all have broken sleep in these remaining days nightmares of the plague that took so many leaving the mad, bad and us, the desperate. We eke out, stand watch, wait. For what? For a quiet death perhaps. But in the day we want very much to live so we tend straggling sheep, shoot rabbit, go on.
Fear clutches my gut as the car turns past empty houses and down along our valley road, a form of relief washes us as it continues on following the river to richer pickings in the southern towns. I move my baby to feed at my other breast and mourn the futures stolen from her, the violence awaiting.
She came to see me resplendent in red glittering with dust her elegant bone structure evident more than ever desiccated and dead spacesuit blown floating past the view screen when I know we retrieved her from orbit yesterday
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