Eyes Closed
by Damien Hunt

Beyond the playground proper
where the boarder edges between forest and grass
clash into a dense obstacle of snagging picky weeds
lies the beginning of a dream.

A tree fort sits within
perched precariously on bare bowed branches
strung up in a web of fraying knots and rusty bent nails
more precious, rare and ignored than a rainbow.

The site of play
a grand castle of imagination
heroic knights and foul monsters bound in a ritual of creation
more profound than reality.

A path once existed
worn through the bramble barrier
right through to the silvery grit of the ground below
too untenable for adult feet to follow.

Now it is gone
grown over by ignorance, forgotten innocence
lost and insignificant in a world of mundane conformity
your eyes closed to childish things.

Nothing remains but a fragment
pile of broken nails, snapped ropes and rotting lumber
collapsed into a monument to the best times
consumed by the inconsistent mists of memory.

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