The Final Shot Is Fired

The moonlight danced across the waters where the breeze made ripples there. Nothing stirred the stillness except the lonely hoot of an owl. It was as if the place had desolation in the air, but all that was deceptive as the earth trembles of men marching somewhere. As the night grew longer, the marching stirred the silence that had been there before. Soon voices barking orders had ears erect. Slowly the resting animals now began to flee. Somehow they could sense two predators were about to start a war. Rifles were cocked and ready, their muzzles extended from each bush. They would not open fire until their prey was near. The volley of shots sent scores of birds to flight into the early morning light. Shots rang out from both sides, each thinking they were winning for the cause they were fighting for. Neither realised the war would never be over so long as both sides carried a gun. That could be a picture from any battlefield, it’s only when they give up their weapons and sit around a table and talk to one another will wars ever end. Until that day comes along the death toll will rise always at an alarming rate. The ghosts of thousands still roam across every battlefield, never ever resting until the final shot is fired. 8 February 2008