By Karen Petersen
War and Peace These green hills, so soft and welcoming, hide all manner of treachery and sadness. Their grassy bosoms caress the dead, buried deeply down in the timeless dark, unquiet mouths trying to speak in vain above the wind rolling in from the rippling sea. Below those waters, in fields of sea grass, a platoon of arms wave in macabre choreography, waving goodbye to life, goodbye, goodbye, yet above, on the shore, it’s just another sunny day of strollers, lovers, and happy oblivion. And why not, the dead don’t rise.
Photo/painting by Annie Spratt