The Riverbank

I am on the riverbank. At my right side is the city, spreading like a fungus. I watch the River carrying waste, South, where she cuts the horizon. It is where my world ends. Some gulls flap their wings just above my head. A man stands beside me, dressed in a long cloth coloured in the orange of oranges. ‘What will happen to the River and all that is in it?’ I ask. ‘Circles will return the River’, the man says, his voice a crackle, but deep. ‘Think of circles and I will show you.’ I think of the Sun, flowerhearts, circles in water. The man grips my shoulder. Something happens. Clouds cover the Sun. A soft rain starts coming down. Shadows move and darken the city. The rain drops become solid, less transparant, larger. Suddenly it rains plastics, and lumps of metal, surrounded by thick gasses in mat red and yellow hues. Before long the city becomes one vast heap of indefinable shapes. Then all colours vanish in a rush of grey. The gulls squeel and drop themselves to the ground, eyes hollow. As the wind howl grows stronger on the flat land around me, it brings the chocking smell of death. The man lifts his hand from my shoulder. The edges of all around me ripple. Within seconds all colours fly back to where they used to be. The gulls waggle about on their twig-like feet and and cry loudly while they ascend. I blink. The pile of waste has disappeared. So has the man. I gaze at the horizon. And I realize I can see beyond it.


About chb

Writer, scientist, puzzled by mankind.
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