On my way to the woods.

On my way to the Woods.

An evening stroll in midsummer heat,
a gentle breeze teases my feet,
in open toe sandals I cross the street.

Down the road toward the chapel,
sandals scuff oddly against rough gravel,
adjacent to the graveyard, I observe the headstones,
so unkept, they’re spoiled, by grass overgrown
I can barely see the names of those long passed,
the eerie feel makes me switch my pace from slow to fast.

And finally I arrive at the long narrow path,
that leads down to the gate to the forest where we laughed,
so many memories buried deep in the woods,
of old walks with friends on summer days just like this,
of games of hide and seek and thrill of adventure,
of camp fires made and sat around as we kissed,

But something caught my eye on the path that day,
what was meant to be a joyous walk ended only in dismay,
a bird perched just in front of the gate on a lone patch of grass,
black and white its piercing eyes fixated on me,
I looked around,
who else could it be?
I was the only person in the surrounding area,
the magpie knew, it was not coincidence nor hysteria,
one for sorrow the old rhyme says.
It rang in my mind as I fell to my knees.