This is for Sue Vincent’s #writephoto challenge. It started off as a poem and I rewrote it as a piece of prose, a sort of prose poem. I might try again and write something more story-like.
Purple the sky that quenches the sun, violet the cloudy horizon, and midnight is blue as a deep, dark well. I watch the fire that dies in the west, the night that falls harder than winter, and I long for a star to follow, for someone to guide my steps onward. But the valley echoes bronze bell-hollow, and the sedge bends beneath unseen steps. In the well of the world, the moon swims, a fish, round as a cheese, pale as death waiting like me, for the rising tide.
Purple the sky that rains cold tears, and I hide my face from its sorrow. But still I see the violet light of tomorrow’s illusions flicker and skim the dark well, a mirror, reflecting your face. Moon rises, flooding the world, and the great pale fish flicks its tail at the stars.
Continue reading here: #writephoto microfiction: The tides of the night