The sun is low a thin gold dust

The sun is low, a thin, gold dust

along the splintered rail.

The swing chain groans, a sigh of rust,

a whispered, worn-out wail.

He dug a hole, that busy thief,

and hid his treasure there.

Another season, quick and brief,

hangs heavy in the air.

My coat pulled tight, the cold begins

to seep into the stone.

That sound, the swing's old rusty pins,

reminds me I'm alone.

It isn't quite a place to stay,

not truly in or out.

Just watching shadows drain away,

with lingering, quiet doubt.