by James Murphy

The satyr had known she was important to the health and plenty provided to the fields and meadow where he'd romped in lusty glee with her. Entering the meadow and looking around he's saddened by the stubble where she and he once feasted in green fields. Brown ruin is taking over the lush abundance of the meadow where they skipped amid bird call. The wilt of the surrounding trees and the dust stirred by the hot wind on the dry slope just descended reminds him she's gone and taken bounty with her. Even the pool where she played and splashed with the likes of swan and hound and porcupine has dried up, its shimmering blessing replaced by a darker nature. The hungry satyr stands in this exhaustion and longs for her, the succulent flesh of tender sweet potato he can slowly pull apart and sink his lonely face into.


James Murphy, author of Heading South, is retired and loves to write engagingly, whether it's letters or journals or some riff playing in his head.


margery said...

I read this a few times. I liked it.

Harry said...

I really liked this James, especially that last sentence. Bravo!