A secret place of old
High above that ancient strip pit.
Now filled with water a million feet deep.
Sits that old campsite, where we went as kids.
That sacred place with a stone ring built years ago.
Who knows how long?
Who knows who began?
Who knows who owns the land?
We never cared.
Surrounded by grandfather Oaks, flickering in orange fire light.
Witnesses to coal miners, outlaws, runaways, tortured souls and romance blooming.
The sounds of a hidden water fall tinkling ever so gently in the back of the mind.
Behind all the trees somewhere nice and cool.
Birds singing songs of freedom and love,
with the caws of the Crow reminding us he’s alive.
The scurrying of the chipmunks no one ever sees,
along with squirrels high in the trees.
That dull roar of life,
everywhere going about its day.
Working its work without pay.
And that smell.
That mystery smell of soil and coal.
The scent of flowers on the wind.
The beauty of it all rests in every soul carried along to enjoy.
The sound of humans coming down the trail.
Young teens seeking escape from controlling parents deep.
A place to go and sit down for a while, where secrets can speak.
Time for nature to hide.
The humans are here.
Move slow for a while.
Until they disappear.
Bio: Chris Bunton is a writer, poet and blogger.
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