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Wood benches are hard like the ragged bark of the tree,
The gentle wind blows past and through me,
Dry as a desert is the soil lining the ground,
It is silent save for the distant muttering sounds,
The sun’s rays beating down at me with angry golden fingers,
The tree’s branches probe out like a virus that lingers,
The air is fresh and the flowers smell sweet,
The bees are people, places to go and things to complete,
Sitting, watching the shadows play with the light,
The suddenly loud construction noises cause such a fright,
People working, steady and sure,
The fruit falls like bombs from in a war,
Landing on the corpses of once vibrant leaves,
Together on the floor an Autumn pattern they weave,
With bright shades of orange and green,
Mixed with brown and purple the colours can be seen,
The light and the dark, the bright and the dull,
Within this place any bad feelings are null,
Seeming to guard you with the best of its ability,
Spreading the feeling of tranquility,
‘
Metaphor Poem
Leyla Yucel
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