There is a special place in every wood, a magic ancient dell that some are drawn to. No worries, cares, constraints, hatred or war. Only the beautiful sounds of nature, fun and laughter fill these wondrous places.
My mind wanders staring at this simple swing, from rope and wood. Hanging loosely from the strong arm of a giant Beech. This leafy hollow, joyous woodland glade, a safe and kindly place. Quiet spirits must surely pass this way fairies, pixies, elves.
I sit awhile, mornings such as these should lift the weariest heart. On the floor what’s that? Among the ferns and brambles. The outside world is creeping back, a discarded barbecue. Ash and festering food litter the woodland carpet. Beer cans thrown wildly all around, the spell is broken.
Now a hum, six lanes of traffic nearby, planes scurry about the sky. What kind of place is this? Many things to many people. Special? Absolutely. Magic? Maybe. I walk away the voices linger drifting down through time, love, laughter, sadness.