Drabble: Dust

Where not was the ash? It was settled over the ground, grey and dusty. The breeze moved it about in dreary swells. Sometimes you saw what was beneath, the charred wood, the black burnt timber which had been the bones of this house, and other bones, small bones, corpses trapped behind locked doors, bones leftover, hidden in the ash. The wind sometimes revealed, sometimes hid, them as it threw the dust into the air or settled it down someplace new. The small skeletons, the children’s skeletons, were everywhere, their flesh consumed, burnt up into ashes. The ash clung to me.