MachineMachine /stream

This is an extract from a work in progress... a short story, perhaps. Let me know what you Think.

Tinkering with his iron fragments the stooping figure beads in sweat so as this heat won’t extinguish him. Seven steps astride him pink-lipped petals set the wind a moving; seeds at depth force Earth versus its sky; a honey coloured beetle arranges its deathbed, a future in revolt against the flowers. These meadows offer little for the tinkerer, since not a war’s been fought amongst them for such an age as all that’s left is ruby rust. Still, he cricks his spine in sensing, gouging his cart a track along which to guide it, and wanders over the meadow banks; wanders a crest a thoughtless dream in search of iron scraps.

As a life he’d had plenty enough, seen such a family of moons not a starry gaze could count them. On colder days the river banks took hold of the ice, painting memories for him of years past when the water flowed a different path. Each icy bed locking…