This is what I recall,
Streets of dust rising like whispers,
Beneath the weight of wandering soles,
When the occasional car sped by,
Drawn to the golden glow on gated houses on the left,
Oblivious to vines cascading like emerald waterfalls on the right.

Beyond the walls, amidst the sylvan tapestry,
A wooden bridge swayed, a legacy woven by Mrs. Lawal,
Crafted years before her spirit danced with zephyrs,
Creaking beneath the weight of memories,
Etched into its weathered planks,
Whispering tales of clandestine lovers, offended by the stars.

In the forest, judgment found no home,
Leaves became a blanket for their love,
Branches a canopy, sheltering their passion,
Mocking birds hummed tunes, celebrating their love,
Even the toads that croaked were not judgmental,
Their cold blood simply craved the warmth of love.

Passion flourished between the trees,
Leaves tingled with the touch of affection,
The spirit of the earth bestowed their eutierric love a gift.
Whenever they close their eyes, they return to that bridge,
Where whispers linger like timeless echoes,
And the eternally embracing wood cradles their souls.









Photo by freddie marriage on Unsplash