Bronze-headed battalions tread ageing furrows. Soldiers shouldering burdens twice their size. Heads down, they busy themselves. Backwards and forwards along meandering tracks.

They hit the wall but each warrior steels itself and pulls up higher and higher. None stop, none falter; no retreat in these ranks.

Nights grow colder now. They will need to find shelter. The rock will protect them while they wait out the winter.

With the caress of the spring sun, the colony of bronze soldiers returns to its labour. All the while dreading the fatal crush of the gardener’s boot.



R. J. Kinnarney is trying to make sense of her tiny corner of the world, through tiny pieces of writing and lots of reading. She lives with her family of orange animals and her own purple hair – note: the animals are tamer than the hair. Words lie out there in all sorts of places. Links to online and print published works can be found at Twitter: @rjkinnarney