Day Forty Eight: 9th September 2012

THE PLAYGROUND

There is a playground on the corner.
Once overflowing with innocent laughter and excuberance,
Now echoing emptiness and noxious memories,
The only sparkle, sun reflecting early morning dew off spider’s webs,
The only movement, wind rustling through broken swing seats,
The only sound, creaking of a rusty see-saw,
Strangling weeds and bitter nostaglia the sole inhabitants,
Of this relic of urban opulence.
A cruel reminder of sins hidden,
There is a playground on the corner.

The Playground: Pastel on Paper

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

© Dawn Whitehand 2012

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