The grass turned yellow, as it grew long in the summer heat laying flat on the ground. Where thick forests stood was now a maze of ashen totems of an earlier time.
The simple gate way far back held with wood and nails still protected the fields from what was beyond. Things a child’s mind could only imagine, did imagine.
The metal latch had rusted red with the hinges, creaking a greeting at each wind.
Summer was now barren but for mice weaving through the grass. Winter had lost its magic, any creature had fled. Spring come and gone, not much a thing has changed. Autumn dancing rains will wash the remains away.
Tired sullen eyes have lost their wonder just like the meadow.
However, standing on those back steps, the memory lives on.