The Treehouse

From the other side of the wall you can see into the heart of it the tiny furniture lies just as we left it ten years ago. The wild battle cries of our youth running with muddy faces a fearsome band of villagers revolting against the great carrot tax of ‘03. The rot of dandelion soups, of hot wax congealing on damp wood green saplings falling over each other in their hurry to grow tallest. We danced into the dusks of the back garden, forgotten by our parents in those joyful hours made a microcosm of our planet and ruled it better than any king ever has. Threadbare costumes rough against skin, innocent of time’s unrelenting ripples moving in the moat around our fortress. We had no understanding of change every hour was a day in that world – surrounded by adult mechanisms too soon to descend upon us. Now there are only a few rotting chairs an impossibly low table, some camo curtains shredded and fed upon by lichen shift and tease between the trees accompanied by the fadeout of laughter.

Anastasia Van Spyk