Millennium Wood

Let's walk up to Millennium Wood.

There we can sit on the decking

next to the frogspawn pond

and maybe talk for a while.

The air is heavy this morning;

with every breath I feel

the dew resting in my lungs.

Down the muddy path hidden by trees.

Rushing, we hear the racing stream,

dim light filtering through

the autumnal canopy,

illuminating the dirt track

that lies sullen beneath;

covering our shoes in sludge.

Through the metal gate, into the open.

A pathway made of woven grass,

a trodden tapestry

soaked by the night's heavy rainfall

leads us deeper into the trees.

Our trouser legs sodden

from the pasture's sweet kisses.

Between the dense forest barriers.

The sun caresses our faces

freely as we venture

towards our destination;

fresh water droplets wait, ready

to fall when we depart,

patiently sat on the leaves.

Eyes capture the familiar decking.

It is awash with thick green moss,

the wooden boards rotting,

railings now decaying mould.

The pond: rife with suffocating

weeds and empty beer cans

and the corpses of tadpoles.

The beauty from last summer has passed.