Reflection by Hugh Cron

It’s strange how a summer’s day can be unsettling. Especially amongst the shadows of the trees. The bird song is sweet but I don’t like it. The breeze is warm but it chills me and even though I am cold, I’m covered in sweat.

I reckon that I’ve been wandering for about an hour. I thought that it was me being lost that is unsettling but it’s not. I don’t like the body of water that I’m walking towards. It whispers to me. I try to ignore what I can’t hear. I want to get away from it but the whole area pushes me closer. My legs are so heavy. They only lighten when I walk towards it. I’m too tired. I relent and walk to the water’s edge and sit.

I now feel dread. My feelings have escalated without logic. My body is tired and even though I’m terrified I feel the ache in my legs subside. So now I have no pain, only fear.

I stand but the lead returns to my legs when I try to walk away from the water. I know it wants me but there’s no way that I’m going in. I’ll sit and wait.

It hasn’t got dark. I’m not sure whether or not I am happy about this. Maybe it’s just my perception of time that isn’t working but I don’t think so. I checked my watch when I heard the birds sing and it had stopped at 2.00pm. I don’t know if there is any significance of that time. I don’t really care, I would just like to get away.

I stand again and face the water. Maybe I can trick it by walking backwards. No. That hasn’t worked. I’m a yard closer to the edge. I have no option but to sit again.

The water is still whispering and I still can’t make out what it is saying. I concentrate but there is nothing, only pitch and tone and forgotten words.

I’ve been avoiding looking across it, but now seems as good a time as any. I need something more or less, just not the same.

It looks still although a very gentle ripple interrupts it every couple of minutes or so. It holds me.

I contemplate my own madness. Maybe I’m holding myself here. Maybe time hasn’t stood still and it is dark. I hope I’m mad but know I’m not.

I could try being vocal. But the more I think on it, the more I realise that the water will consider it rude. It’s talking so I can’t.

I could send it my thoughts. But that’s stupid. It knows what I’m thinking.

I’m sure I’ve been here for hours, maybe days. I don’t feel hunger or thirst. I’m not tired and the sun hasn’t burnt me. I feel well. I am scared but I’m well.

I listen again. I just wish I knew what it was saying. Then I’d know what it wants from me. And why is it making me feel well?

I look across it once more. There’s no change. I see the ripple. The birds are still singing their sweet unsettling song. I won’t move away. I am healthy. It still whispers.

When I’m not so scared I’ll learn to love it.

Hugh Cron