Sitting in idleness with-
the creeping ivy growing high,
oxidized metal blends in with the dirt,
paint peeks out from underneath the bubbles of rust.
Still the small bell sings,
(there upon the croooked handles)
A joyful reverberation leaping for the trees.
Remanents of neon green tassels shyly flutter,
taken in hand by a curious and friendly morning breeze.
PN: work that hasn’t been workshopped will have titles accompanied with “(rough)”.