Lonely Weir

The water felt the pull, the distant attractor, accelerating, enticing. The water continued to flow, as it always had running from it’s hundreds of tiny sources, growing into the torrents of streams and then rivers. Waterways channeled with a specific aim, granting the water more power than nature had ever managed. It’s destiny now written in crafted stone, occasionally trapped, but never for long. Serving masters it did not know or understand. And so it did, blindly, continually. Water coursed forth through rotten gates, and over well worn weir. Buildings which fed on it’s power still lined the banks, dark metal and glass carcasses of a once prosperous world. But those that had dwelt within, feeding from the water in so many and varied ways, had long since passed. Now the roar of water echoed unheard through hollow constructions of the extinct. But the water still flowed, slowly wiping away the traces, knowing that one day it would once again be free of it’s shackles and meander from source to salty sea.

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