You stop suddenly, as usual at this particular place. The river lay stretched out before us like a serpent bleeding across the plains.

Willow trees stand tall all along the river. You sit on a rock and stare into nothingness, eyes glistening in the wind. You never want to walk further down towards the river. You always say:

'There lives hurt, my love, under that oak tree where the river meanders.'

I do not yet know what kind of hurt it is, but your fear has said enough,
and I know a part of you drowned in that river.

I never say anything when we get to this point, because the pain in your eyes is too much to bear.

But, somehow, I feel words forming
over my dry lips.

"What's happened under that old oak tree?"

Something growls inside you, your face catches fire and your eyes become like those of a startled deer.

And I feel in my skin how even the willow trees begin to mourn.



© Scott