At The End Of The Walk

During the day walkers would park their weary bottoms, slug from
water bottles, and then continue up on their journeys. Dogs would poke
inquisitive noses into the bracken whilst their owners stopped to check
their map. Couples would rendezvous, shyly kiss and travel on.
The bench stood in its copse. Its wood carrying memories of when it
had been a tree. Sounds of the horn blowing through Its leaves as his
lordship cantered after the stag. Ladies leaning against its trunk as
their beau picked them wild flowers growing around its base. It
remembered its pain as the sharp blade of the wood mans axe bit into
its bark.
It sat, listening to the rustles of the wild animals. Feeling the wind flow
over and around it. Hearing the birds chattering as they flew over it.
It sat and waited for you

5 thoughts on “At The End Of The Walk

  1. I love the tree memories winding through this prose. Sometimes when I walk on a wood floor I wonder about the memories of the tree behind it. Glad I’m in good company with these thoughts! You said it well.

  2. I was a little annoyed with myself yesterday, because I wanted to read on, but trying to be more disciplined, and dishes and crap needing to be done, I tore away. But I am back. If your writing were boring, I wouldn’t be, but for you to write about a bench in a way, that is visual and I could hear the birds chirping, and having given the wood memories was brilliant. Glad to be back to read more. Maggie

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