For visually challenged writers, the image shows an old, long-closed gate in an ornate but crumbling wall, overgrown with wildflowers.
The airs opulent scent of honeysuckle
wafts gently through the breeze,
as each step is carefully taken
through a thorny thicket and broken branches.
There is no path, nor trail to follow,
I solely rely upon the shadows cast
through the luscious thickness of the trees.
Copius blackberry bushes and fallen trees
covered in moss impede my journey,
though I’m traveling, with no destination in mind.
In the distance, I hear a soothing, bubbling creek;
water trickling over river rock.
I also hear the squawk of a red tail hawk flying overhead,
as if guiding me along, to reveal his secret treasure…
I proceeded with caution as I crossed the stream,
the sunlight dancing through the water droplets, and then,
there it was…
A dilapidated ornate stone wall from
a time that has forgotten and abandoned it in the middle
of this vast forest.
My mind fantasizes as I gaze at this antiquated wall,
now bursting with wildflowers and moss.
I imagine back to the day’s when the wall was erected,
men sacrificed their bodies by selecting
and lifting each suitable stone by color and texture;
then building a doorway. But a doorway to where?
Was it an entrance to a grand estate, or was it an exit?
Nothing remained around the grounds in which I stood,
just my imagination and a secret doorway to nowhere.
I revisit it every so often by little markers I left behind…
This was now my secret place, the lonely wall and I.