The Valley

The place was beautiful, but today the beauty was sharpened into more fierce, majestic contours. The branches of the willow trees pointed angrily at the earth like fiery icicles, and the wind whipped at their limbs with furious howls, defending the earth from the accusing boughs. The river was the only part undamaged by the sad fury that smothered the valley, rumbling slowly towards the sea. A small stream cried itself into the river, its tears bloody with iron ore. On the opposite bank, a vermillion fox fed its young with the pitiful carcass of some unrecognisable prey.

Today, the colours were muted, shadowy shades of blue and grey. Less angry than before, the anger having melted into something deeper. Pure, cold and completely overpowering, the pain seemed to have buried itself into the earth, forming roots holding it firmly in place. There was no wind today, the solemn willows drooped silently, weeping, seeping their sadness back into the ground they drew it from. The sky was black with storm clouds, and there were no animals, driven away by the dense blanket of despair. The river still made its way through the valley, but it seemed in a hurry to get by, as though it too could sense the anguish.

Things were a little better today. It was the first time since the angry day which I had seen the sun. Albeit weak, the pale rays were hopeful, as though they knew the worst was over. The pain was still there, but it had thinned, allowing the breeze to weave through the willows, drawing the sadness from them, forcing it high into the sky. Everything that had happened had not left, but the valley had used time to heal itself. Time was no true cure, only a sedative, bringing a numbness, easier to deal with than the harsh cold despair.

Today the valley was almost back to its original state. Only the trees showed damage, their branches still drooping towards the ground, heavy with the weight of the past.