When Dreams Die
Tim Simkins
Raindrops. They cling to the blades, only to fall gently towards the moist earth.
The night is still, and unlit by moon or stars. A silence hangs over the hillside.
With no wind stirring, tendrils of dark gray fog rest upon the bending blades of grass.
The dampness from the rain so recently ceased is penetrating and heavy in the air.
As you make your way towards the treeline, the wet grass soaks your jeans
And brings a chill to your legs, as it swishes softly, yielding before you.
The treeline beckons, barely visible in the overcast darkness. As you near,
You see strands of rusted barbed wire dangling from the old maples and oaks,
Disappearing to the ground for yards at a time, overgrown by weeds and covered by
Fallen leaves. They are remnants of a time long past. The rough bark of the trees
Has grown over scars that will never fully heal. Barbed wire is trapped forever
Under that bark, once shining steel, now gradually dissolving into nothing.
Clouds, unseen, pass overhead and you can hear water dripping like tears onto
The rain-soaked forest floor. A dark figure, only now visible, leans against
A large oak. Still, unmoving, almost invisible, it stands with hands thrust into
The pockets of an old leather jacket. The collar of the jacket is turned up against
The falling drops. A hand emerges, creeping slowly, imperceptibly inside the jacket.
The head turns slightly, and you hear a metallic clunk and a grinding click.
The face is illuminated in the flickering orange flame of a Zippo. It is not a
Handsome face. Narrow, almost gaunt, with a prominent nose set below brown
Eyes that stare without seeing. Dark brown, like muddy pools of water, with onyx
In the center. You see that thin lips, twisting slightly upward on one side, loosely hold
A crooked Camel. It is a young face, and an old one. A face grown old before its time.
Shadows dance, but the face does not change. The lighter is extinguished with a thunk.
The only remaining light is the glowing red ash of the cigarette. The sharp odor of
Tobacco smoke wafts towards you. The clouds overhead part, allowing starlight to
Penetrate. A boot scrapes rock, and leather scuffs against bark as the figure straightens.
The cigarette describes a brilliant arc as it is flicked to the ground. It sizzles in the wetness
Before winking out. The figure turns its back on you, regarding the darkness before it.
Bathed in blackness, the forest beckons the figure onward. Stepping over the bowing
Strands of barbed wire, it enters the void. Intrigued, you follow. Slowly, purposefully,
It pursues a path only it can see. Up the hill it strides, easy to trail. It makes its way
Silently on the sodden leaves. Soft pine needles brush your face, leaving drops of rain.
The figure sidesteps a tangle of blackberry briars, just beginning to bear fruit. Its path
Winds and twists, like that of a snake, but always towards a destination, known only to
One. The figure halts before a young beech, bark smooth and unscarred by inscriptions,
Unlike so many of its older fellows. Studying it for a second, it withdraws a knife,
Begins to carve. Something unreadable to you in the darkness. Time passes. In the
Early light of dawn, you see, delicately inscribed upon the young bark, a name is
Formed. The figure retreats a pace, lost in reflection, staring at the name. It recites,
Slowly, solemnly, but without sadness in its voice:
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind.
Brow furrowed in concentration, it moves forward again, to a small clearing not far beyond
The beech. Upon a lichen covered rock it sits, and extracts a Camel, not so crumpled
As the first and lights it with a scratched and dented Zippo. Upon the rock it sits, gazing
Out into the valley. Gradually, the dawning light reveals the field far below. The figure
Appears younger now, less aged. The sun burns the mist from the air, moving east to west.
The valley, shadowed in gray, emerges in the morning light. The shadows resolve into
Deep green hills, extending beyond the horizon. The burning cigarette slips to the brown
Dirt, and is ground out with the toe of a boot. The figure rises, eyes shielded from the
Morning sun, it turns to leave. The brown jacket melts into the trees, meandering down
A different path. The figure disappears into the brightness of the new day, looking
Towards tomorrow, unhindered by the grief of yesterday. You see now what happens,
When Dreams Die...
