A clattering like hollow bones
echoes through the rocks.
With each hand and foot hold
white dust sticks to our clothes and skin.
Nowhere is the way level
Each movement demands attention.
Breath is interrupted by chalk in our throats.
The clattering rises as we traverse
the endless field.
It takes on rhythms.
We see no life
But something is
at work on that sound.
We dare not pause
until the rhythms cease.
The silence transforms the rocks
into gleaming white tombstones
over our heads.
At every edge of our sight
is movement.
Pale figures against alabaster stone.
They close in around us.
Covered in ashy chalk.
Some carry large bones.
We are surrounded.
Disclosure: The links below are affiliate links, meaning, at no additional cost to you, I will earn a commission if you click through and make a purchase.