The Park

The mist sits clearly
In the distance.
It could be anytime,
But it isn’t.
The hollow,
Leafless trees
Make a strike
In opposition to the skyline.
Battered stable doors
Make their excuses
And rot away
Behind the metal gates
That cut vision precisely
Into halves
And then quarters.
Eventually they are
Unnoticeable
And cars interrupt
The symmetry.
Each step smaller than the last
As the road approaches,
Encroaches,
Encloses.