Descriptive Piece of Writing: The Park

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Descriptive Piece of Writing: The Park

Wandering through the park, engulfed by my thick coat, I stare around me with disgust. The once green and beautiful park is now grey and boring; damaged by youths. However, the park is the place where I can just come and think: it’s quiet and peaceful and I feel free; away from the bustle and noise of the city.

There is a chill breeze in the air, therefore most people are inside their warm houses, clustering round their coal fires, but this is when I like it best. To me, wrapped up in layers and scarves, it only feels fresh, not cold and I can think better when I’m alone.

I stare at the climbing frame, once bright and colourful with a shiny slide, but now the only colour is the dull rusty red of the metal and the black of the graffiti covering it. My eyes glaze over while I reminisce about happier times spent on the climbing frame, and how I used to fly through the air, aided by the monkey bars, just like a chimpanzee swinging through a tree.

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The trees in the park creak and groan as the wind picks up. Leaves rustle at my feet and my hair is whipped around my raw face by unseen hands. I disappear inside my warm jacket and spy the swings over in the corner.

As I sit on the only swing not broken by vandals, one gloved hand entwined round the chain, and my feet scuffing at the tarmac, I gently propel myself forward and back in gentle rhythm. I am lost in my own world. Absent-mindedly my free hand delves deep into the mystery of my pocket ...

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