From the UK

Westminster Abbey

Standing over dead men
Breathing solemn air
Smiling
Bright light blinds
The subtle blues and reds
Cast through stained glass.

Your moment stolen
Static, empty.

Cameras pass through
Souls seeped
From ancient graves
Like arrows flung
To kill them once again.

I’ll have the Abbey keep
Its secrets sacred.


Grass

“Why doesn’t the grass grow longer up there?” She watched the mountain intently, as if expecting the pale green surface to sprout up into a thick forest at her command. “I mean it’s not like someone cuts it. Our grass gets longer than that back home, and we have to cut it once a week or so.”
I made something up. “It’s probably a different species. Some grass just doesn’t grow very high.”
“Oh.” She was clearly looking for something more profound.
“Plus, would you really want it that green up there? The contrast between the rocks and the grass is my favorite part. It’s like there’s this fine dusting of life, and if it wanted to, the mountain could just shake it all off,” I couldn’t tell if she was listening. Something in that view had gotten a hold of her. I kept trying. “But it doesn’t, you see. The rocks coexist with the grass. They compliment one another. It’s really beautiful if you think about it.”
I really was trying. “Beth?”
“Huh?” She cast a short look from the corner of her eye, but was still fixed on the window.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“Well?”
“’Well’ what?”
“Can you say something? Please. I just like to know I’m not talking to a brick wall.”
“I know you do. I don’t have anything to say.”
Her elbow rested on the edge of the table. I traced it down her forearm to her palm and we linked our fingers and held hands. It was quiet for a long time. I watched her as she looked out at the rough Scottish hillside. She was beautiful. Her hands were like ice.
“I don’t like rocks,” she finally said, “The small ones get in my shoes and I can’t seem to get them out. They ruin my day. And the big ones just get in the way. We could see the water without those hills.”
“Oh.”
“There. I said something.”
“Thanks.”
We were still holding hands. She was watching the mountain, waiting for the grass to grow. “But yeah,” I broke the silence, “it’s probably just different grass.”
“Yeah. Probably.”
I let go of her hand. “Hey.”
“What?”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Can’t you look at me when you say it? I mean, I know the view is beautiful, but I’d like to feel it when you say it.”
She looked. “I love you too.” It seemed like she meant it this time. I leaned in to kiss her cheek, and felt it cold and rigid against my lips. Her hand broke away slowly but intentionally. “You’re wrong, you know.”
“What?”
“About the grass.”
“Oh?”
“It’s the wind. It’s the wind and the rocks. The wind won’t let it stand. It just presses all the grass up against the rocks, and strangles it to death.”
I thought about correcting her—the notion of the wind and the rocks conspiring to suffocate the grass was simply absurd—but she spoke again before I had the chance.
“I think I’ll move to Peru.”
Clearly there was something wrong with her thinking. “What are you talking about?”
“Have you seen the mountains there? They’re so lush—so green. I think I’ll move there.”
“Beth, we can’t move to Peru,” I had to talk some sense into her.
“I know we can’t.”
She started to cry. There was no sense to talk into her. Her cheek was still cold and now wet as I kissed her for the last time.