Just Another Old Tree
My park gates are being opened; I hear the metal hinges creak. They are rusted now, these hinges—pieces of browned, crisp metal drop off quietly, …
My park gates are being opened; I hear the metal hinges creak. They are rusted now, these hinges—pieces of browned, crisp metal drop off quietly, …
I gently place my hand on the top of the cool, smooth metal gate and it squeaks a welcome as I step off the footpath …