MacFarlanne interpretations - An outside Place

The glowing yellow light pierced through the trees, refracting off of the frost covered grass. Winter had set in and was not treating his unkempt garden well. The birds no longer visited here and their song was rarely heard, he missed the preach of a lark and the coo of a pigeon. The 9:26 train to London Waterloo jetted past, leaving the trees cowering in its wake as the icy breeze pricked my raw cheeks. His shed - riddled with rot but sturdy with age - built in the corner was his pride. The window, frosted over with the dew and cold, showed the tools he had once used when he was more athletic. But the rust of the tools and the overgrown grass left us to wonder who cared any more? Not him. The treehouse in the far left corner made me smile as I fondly remembered climbing the rope ladder and sliding down the now cracked and splintered slide. I missed this place.