The Willow’s Weeping By Kirsty R-D




Mr. and Mrs. Smith were household names down in Silverfort, they were the richest by far, the classiest, the most sophisticated and the most organised. They were perfect. Everything about them was perfect; their house was perfect, their jobs were perfect, their country club was perfect. But one of the most perfect things about their perfect lives and perfect world was their garden. Laid beside their cosy, little cottage were the most beautiful lawns you will ever see, half an acre wide and twice the length; they were the most vibrant green colour ever to grace the earth and when the midday sun hit, you could see the dew drops clinging to the grass not wanting to let go of the most beautiful blades they had ever known.
Along the left side and the far edge of the garden ran a border of trees of every kind; spruce and oak, pine and birch, cherry and ash; a collage of bark and leaves. Amongst them, standing out more than others was a colossal weeping willow, way down in the far left corner, standing just out of reach of all the other trees. It truly was a wonder to look at and a lovely bit of shade under which to read a lovely little book.
But sometimes, it was said, you could hear the willow’s weeping. Its shrill desperate cries, its plea for mercy, floating through the air, screaming for help and its prayers left unanswered were said to haunt the residents of Silverfort through long winter nights and into early Summer morning, but only if you cared enough to listen - which is why Mr. and Mrs. Smith never did hearing its weeping.
See the willow wasn’t weeping for itself. No, it wept for those who could weep no more, those 6 feet beneath its shadow without even the simple company of a heartbeat, those whose own screams had been muffled and gagged, dangled tauntingly in front of them, whispering the sweet promise of a magical saviour to come and rescue them.
But, alas, they would need a miracle to save them. And there never were any miracles nor any saviours. So instead the willow cried for those whose legacies had been buried in the dirt, handful by handful, their names erased, their memories forgotten with each tip of the shovel, their loved ones left with only questions and no answers, wondering what had happened to their best friend, the light of their life, the jewel in their eye, their reason to smile.
And so the willow wept, it boughs sinking to the ground with the heavy burden of what it knew.



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