Footsteps echo in a silent wood.

 

Birds hush their singing.

 

Cold air fills the space.

 

 

A voice on the wind calls:

“There is nothing left”

 

 

Caught in the air, the memory of darker times.

Times when the woodland thrived; vivacious and colourful.

Before fire and hungry mouths ravaged the tranquil home of many, many vibrant beings.

Before emptiness and fear were all that was left.

 

 

Eyes, peering through thicket.

Red eyes. Fiery eyes.

 

“Leave”