Within a twisted frame of deep-set rust, the sign was a puddle of green water. It was not plastic, nor wood, nor electronic. It was water that failed to pour out, snubbing its nose to the law of gravity. The words it bore weren’t words at all, but I could read them all the same. It told of a world beyond the hill, a new place, a place in which a life story worth reading would be written.
The birds laughed and swooped, playing a grand game in the sky, as I laced my trusted hiking boots. Yesterday's storm clouds had eased enough to form generous light puddles on the open road. And there, in one such scouting beam, was a sign in the old language. Though bubbled with rust the runes sat on top, clear and bright, as if their ink was magic made visible. So, face braced to the mischievous wind, what could I do? I followed it, of course.
On a wall that was losing its fight with gravity, was a long-sat and sunken sign. The green of springs gone by was a blizzard of rust both stained and erased its message.
The sign, wallowing in its own spreading rust, had sunken into a long entrenched frown. Its once bold words were flaky beneath wintry tears and warped by its slow-motion collapse.
Deep in the ivy curtain, protected by the flow of green wands, was a sign. Once straight edges, in their long conversation with the rainy seasons, had gained the natural curl of evergreen bark. Though years cold, with the curtain drawn back, it warmed quickly in the boldness of summer rays.
Whilst wandering the woodland path, feet in a buoyant stride, a sign of sunshine hue blossomed into view. Its words danced amid autumnal blushes, the kind that take many winters to bloom. In the dappled light of spring, it spoke of a way to a lake beyond the hill.
Crudely nailed to the rotting bark was a sign, framed in spreading spots, each a different hue of old blood. Even in our torch light, in that fog-embattled beam, the bitten writing told us nothing. What was once clear lettering, a promise of a way home, only whispered of decay.
Upon that road with the wolves at our heels, in the wind that howled and chilled us, we saw a sign. Its face was so blistered with bloody rust that no words could be read. As the encroaching darkness stole every comforting sight, so too did the rust eat away at our hope of escape.
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