Milton Tennis Centre Redux
Jul. 26th, 2006 11:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shapeofthingsOne day, the week before last, smoke suddenly filled the air and I rushed upstairs to check it wasn't mine. It wasn't, just blowing in from the west, sudden and feirce. It was the Tennis Centre, or what's left. The long, bending grass was ablaze, perhaps deliberately, or perhaps a peice of broken bottle caught the sun on just the right angle. I don't know. What I did know was that I wanted to go back there and see what remained, so yesterday I did.
The place seemed naked without the tall grass and thick vines burying the debris, but very much alive. Swallows swooped and dove over the blackened ground, chasing inects beyond my site and ibis picked over the ground. Amonght the blackened stubs of vegetation, vibrant green shoots were pushing there way out. Not all life was flourishing, though: I found a burnt and blackened rat, too slow. An abandoned sneaker lay disintegrating into the ash, long forgotten.
The perished vines revealed the ground pocked with holes and loose piles of rubble. Hardly an enticing play-ground, though someone had been there, organising the broken glass into ecclectic groups. Or perhaps they were there before the fire started. Now they sit as if to gossip over the forlorn sight before them, and complain about my footsteps in the dust.
The place seemed naked without the tall grass and thick vines burying the debris, but very much alive. Swallows swooped and dove over the blackened ground, chasing inects beyond my site and ibis picked over the ground. Amonght the blackened stubs of vegetation, vibrant green shoots were pushing there way out. Not all life was flourishing, though: I found a burnt and blackened rat, too slow. An abandoned sneaker lay disintegrating into the ash, long forgotten.
The perished vines revealed the ground pocked with holes and loose piles of rubble. Hardly an enticing play-ground, though someone had been there, organising the broken glass into ecclectic groups. Or perhaps they were there before the fire started. Now they sit as if to gossip over the forlorn sight before them, and complain about my footsteps in the dust.
