The bench was more made of birdsong than wood, so long had it enjoyed their song.
The bench was a quiet daydream of wood, nestled in a quiet park, dreaming upward as skies of blue and grey woollen coziness all the same.
It was a bench that was dreamed from artist sketchpad into reality, as if one morning the dreamer awoke to find it awaiting them at the foot of their bed.
The bench was held together by the dreams of its guests and its happy memories of lovers and friends.
In placid liberty sat the bench, ever ready to receive a new charge no matter their needs.
The bench was once a sea boat, one that had ridden so many waves with buoyant ease, feeling the sun and letting the wind pass by with its tuneful song. Now the colours of every year she was painted show through in rainbow flakes, rendering her all the more beautiful, safely in her earthen harbour.
The bench was typical of the parks, the rosy cedar browns married to the iron that curved into the great arms and grew into ever-blooming flowers to rest on.
The bench was the kind of brown that spoke of warmth, the kind that is soft, placid and welcoming.
In the company of the trees, ever content to listen to the chorus of the grasses, the bench dreamed onwards through each season.