Clubhouse

It was an old toll bridge
built of thick river stones,
like a castle upon the ridge
with many ruined thrones.

Overgrown with lichen and moss,
it overlooked the river’s flow,
the wood bridge once used to cross
now fallen far below.

Ants crawled among the roots
that twined the rocks pliantly
and, there, among the green shoots,
snakes slithered silently.

A tree-topped twilight shaded
the cavity of the broken tooth,
the Summer sunlight faded
beneath the foliaged roof.

And hidden between the nooks
of the masonry that now remains
are soggy playboy books
ruined by relentless rains.

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