At the Park

The Park Wandering through the park, engulfed by my thick coat, I stare around me with disgust. The once green and beautiful park is now grey and boring; damaged by youths. However, the park is the place where I can just come and think: it's quiet and peaceful and I feel free; away from the bustle and noise of the city. There is a chill breeze in the air, therefore most people are inside their warm houses, clustering round their coal fires, but this is when I like it best. To me, wrapped up in layers and scarves, it only feels fresh, not cold and I can think better when I'm alone. I stare at the climbing frame, once bright and colourful with a shiny slide, but now the only colour is the dull rusty red of the metal and the black of the graffiti covering it.
A scream passing through an open window at the edge of town rattles the settled sounds of a night tucked in, the filtering whispers of leaves outside in the breeze interrupted, yielding to the call of a helpless exater protected by sound walls; only the nearby creek persists. You could hear the Call of crickets resign under full moon, and hill-riding wind halts for a moment following the cry. Slowly, the leaves begin to whisper again, though slightly muffled, offset by the impression of a scream when it was the last thing on the night’s mind.

Like his twisted feathers, his many scars, the reliable old owl chose the gnarled, weather-beaten, but solid branch often—it being a companion to the wise alone with the night and the last branch to creak in the heaviest wind