Tears cascade, the cask rolls through the curtains. Good souls escape the fire though. They drift casually, silently, unseen, across the moors. The oldest oak calls, its whisper carries easily though the valleys and tors. “Forever, forever, forever,” the rustling of vibrant green leaves calls, “forever on the wind”. Autumn comes but the leaves don’t fall. Yet, only those whose lost loved ones bore good souls notice the ever green oak. The souls on the wind follow the call, “forever, forever” and a faint vapour wisps up the ancient trunk, through the knot of the soul survivors.
(PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook)