Gnarled old men line the path. Grey heads nodding they dream the dreams of all men in twilight years. Sleepy fingers, lost in memory, drop seeds that fall to lay rotting underfoot. Grass and weeds, brambles and burrs, rise with the passing of the seasons to shape burial mounds sickly sweet with ferment and time. In this still place, marked only by the track of deer and fox, mossy heads bow low and slumber on.
*This post was originally hosted on another blogging platform (MSN Space to MSN Live and finally WordPress). When the content was transferred the media files were lost. I’ve chosen to add new photos rather than delete the post. I try to match any updated content to previously posted comments. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t so the comments can seem to be out of context but I don’t want to delete any of them as they are a part of my blogging history.