In tribute to a woods my grandparent's once owned.


The Playground Woods



Once echoing with the cries of children.
Once the trunks of trees were places to
hide behind.

Once a well-worn trail was trod upon by
small feet.

Once a clubhouse was built with pride.

Once the grave of a cat was visited often
and flowers left.

Once blackberry bushes were visited,
pounced upon by eager hands.

A cruel game of hide and seek was played
against a girl.
She ran back to her parents and bawled
when she could not locate her sister and
cousin.

A teenager used to bring her music here.
Startling the birds out of the trees.

Holes were dug in hope of finding
arrowheads.

Violets were picked for a grandmother.
Touch-Me-Not plants were played with.
Watching the seedpods snap was much fun.

A woods filled with mush fascination.
A realm for much exploration.

The playground woods are now empty of
childhood romps.

The trail is overgrown.
The trees have grown much taller.

All the children who once played here are
long grown.

Perhaps the children still remember the
playground woods with fondness.

Woods still hold a fascination to me.
Nature called to me as a child then.
Nature still calls to me now.

There were many places dear to me as a
child.
The playground woods was one of them.

If I had one wish.
I would like to live next to a woods.

Because a woods could still be a playground
to me even as an adult.





Poetry by Amy Buchanan
Read 592 times
Written on 2007-01-04 at 02:22

Tags Woods 

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normalil
O that one is lovely. I love woodland too, there is a lovely wood where I live, and in Spring it sports violets and snowdrops, and later on, bluebells.
2007-03-08