There is a door along a hill, set back into the stone with a small flight of stairs to reach it. When I was little I thought this door lead to a wonderland and when my Grandmother took me walking, my sister and I would make up stories about what could be found on the other side and how the magic would work to get us there.
The Ram Steps were narrow and cut down into the rock face. In summer, when the trees were in full leaf, it felt like we were miles from anywhere, descending into dwarven ruins deep beneath the earth. Our secret stairway, hands pressed to the sides to keep our feet from slipping of lead mulch in the Autumn.
In the Bluebell Wood we tracked the old carriage road and peered through the gaps in the hedge and past the Ha Ha into the gardens beyond. We collected conkers from the trees overhanging my Grandmother’s fields and I would imagine a time when great ladies in long dresses would have come sweeping down the pathways just out of my sight.
It is a matter,
of what you can see, not what
is actually there.
Today’s prompt for the Monday Haibun was to write a piece inspired by the theme of walking. Now I’m not much of a walker myself, but growing up in a family where my Grandmother always had a dog, weekends with her meant afternoon walks. I have some very fond memories of making up stories about secret gardens and fairy tales lands with my sisters as we wandered around with my Grandmother. Even as a child I loved to create stories, and I loved to tell people all about them.
Seeing that little door when I go past it still brings me joy. Make sure to click the badge above and check out the rest of the lovely poets at the DVerse Poets Pub. Happy Monday.