The abandoned playground has become part of the art of the wintry landscape, a pop of colour in grey mists.
The laughter of the children echoed in my open heart; there are some frequencies only those who have a loving imagination can hear. With my inner eyes I see their smiles and eyes that focus on the branches that sway in the gentle wind. For they are not ghosts, but the living, the hearts elsewhere that yearn to be free, to come here and tell the playground she is still so loved.
The playground is the place I go, so long has it been left to the long grasses and the keen wind. I love it. I love the tranquility, the happy echoes of countless times of laughter and warmth. So, though the roundabout stays quite still, it moves me every day. It feels as if the happiness that once lived here remains, seeped into the wood, ready to infuse me with long ago joy.
The playground has long since been in the company of the wildflowers, the flecks of rainbow gloss mirrored in the petals that come to return the exuberance that belongs here. There are times the rain sounds as laughter and the wind in the trees is the whispering of young friends. It's lovely to see it still so alive in its own way.
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