PTSD

Ten years on and he lives in the garden shed. He can hear the dog barking rifle shots but he takes it with him on his runs to muzzle him. A dew-white spider web’s a trip wire, grass is hissing warnings but it’s too late to report them. The wind’s whisper is a signal from the sniper on the cliff and that cold-eyed seagull will detonate the myrtle bush that lies in his path as he runs, his body not his body. The sound he makes with his damp feet- splashes will lead to a logjam of sodden corpses in a sluggish river. There will be a moon that says movement behind him in his front yard 6 o’clock. He has a wash in dark soy sauce, rallies for combat, face black. His good ear’s a ringing cup of silence.