The thin, green tendons curl and creep along the unrelenting metal.
Sprouts cover the abandoned trail, growing, climbing, maturing.
White buds surround the path like a floral passageway, awaiting its next guest.
At times, the beaten track disappears beneath thorns, grasses, seedlings
And the way is concealed, a missing link between the beginning and the end.
You almost become displaced from reality, but then you find yourself at a modest clearing surrounded by weeds and beautiful little blooms
And an old, wooden bench.
Inscribed in it are many different names, holding the remembrance of people who visited before,
but who have now gone their own way.
The scratches in the ragged wood are memoirs of the ones before us, who have spent small moments in this opening when it was pristine, fresh, neatly pruned.
Sitting on that moth-eaten bench, you can see the glow of the sun reflecting off the tide as it murmurs gently to the sky.
Gone are the days when the path was easy, when the seat was sturdy and the metal was clean.
Leaves now tickle your neck as you walk through the thick shrubbery, and reach down to touch your legs, your arms, your back
as though wondering why a perfect stranger is now back in its home,
Invading the serene area,
after so long being isolated.
When it's sunlight, the ocean glistens and whispers its secrets to all who will listen.
The hills stand tenacious and guard over the innocent.
Everyone below goes on with their lives, without glancing at two figures sitting on the hillside, barely visible amongst the thicket and brush.
When nightfall comes
It seems as though all the stars have fallen upon the city, one for each person,
And the dark expanse of the hushed sea stretches on forever, the ending out of sight.
The heavens and the earth seem to have merged together, so it is now one.
No movement below, except for the wind slowly pushing past weak branches, tugging at leaves and sleepy flower buds, humming a song while the city slumbers.
All man-made objects obscured in the dark, and now it’s just raw nature,
Pure and simple.
When the rain begins to fall, it becomes even more beautiful.
The greenery turns silver under the faint glow of the moon breaking through its prison of clouds.
The raindrops fall off sodden fronds, silently soaking into the dry earth, petrichor filling the air
Seeming to relax the world.
The air sounds static, the constant sound of the droplets impinging the clammy terrain.
This is our place. It is where we spent our days when it was easy to access, when there were often others sharing the space with us, but also once it was fenced off and deemed too treacherous to enter.
Still, we, sentries, go up to our lookout,
And watch the world go by in front of our eyes.
I wrote this about 4 years ago. It is a very special place and I miss it and him. Every day.
