There is a wall.
An old stone wall.
Behind the wall.
Lives nothing.
Just a pile of discarded rubble.
Strewn around regardless.
By the workers who passed by.
The stone wall is made of chunks of flint.
Grey, bluish, sharp and sure.
Perfection naturally.
The rubble is waiting for builders to construct something from it.
A gang of convicts come.
Stack the rubble into a mound.
A high mound.
A sodden plank positioned atop.
A perfect fit.
Welcome home.
(c)LIVVI