Grace Ashworth: The Spring

I sit at the pavilion, 

cold air flowing through the open space. 

Leaves fall from the trees in droves, 

coating the ground in autumnal flavours, 

filling the air with the sweet scent of decay. 

My heart still pounds, a 

mixture of anxiety, exertion 

and panic. 

I can see the spring from here, 

but it isn’t a spring 


Just a puddle of 

black stuff that is much deeper

 than it appears.

 It stopped flowing 50 years ago and no one has done anything for it.

My heart rate slows, 

training setting in.

 Chest no longer heaving, 

but I can feel the 

tickle beginning at the back of my throat. 

A coughing fit is coming on, 

and just as I think that 

it overtakes me. 

Soon, however, 

it quiets, and 

I’m left alone.

 Nothing but the sound of leaves falling 

and the spring trying its 

hardest to bubble back up.

Nothing but the leaves 

and the spring.