© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham
The only residents remaining in the small town of Miners Hill are spirits.
The rest, all visitors ,blow in and out , not knowing their merits,
Like dry leaves drawing the wind’s signature,
they let greed be their ligature,
binding earth to their trash,
crying when one amongst them turns to ash.
The rest, all visitors , of no substance -just glitz, forgets
that the only residents remaining in the small town of Miners Hill are spirits.
The above poem was in response to ‘Monday’s finish the story’ flash fiction challenge. This unique flash fiction challenge provides a new photo each week, and the first sentence of a story. The challenge is to finish the story using 100-150 words, not including the sentence provided. Details are available in this link: