Landscapes of the Mind - prose poetry

The countryside around here is forever a grim reminder of the events that took place - is it forty years ago now? How time flies when your are tangled in it.

Time is relative, said Einstein and took all mine - it litters the fields under broken crosses and stones one day to be bought.

I never visit any of them though I always mean to, and more often claim to, usually to cover up some lie or other.

The hours hang like blackened clouds over a flat troubled Earth, and the ticking of the World Clock is as the incessant pattering and dripping of a rain that never ends.

The fields are all unplanted whites and grays and fade into an uncertain horizon.

The circle's closed, and though I wish for nostalgic red poppies to people my thoughts, I would probably pass them by unnoticed.