The grove had once been a sculpted marvel. Now, discarded it was falling to ruin.
At its heart sits a broken ring of stones. A well: split and scattered, pried apart by weeds, covered in moss, painted in ceaseless shadow.
Amongst the decay is a traveller, lost in exploration: a dragonfly. A flit of movement in the silence, the dancing form weaves between leaf and limb—-sleek lines with metallic hues, a gasp of colour.
The final rays of light from a golden sun, refract off the creatures delicate wings and for a brief, palpable moment, the grove is alive again.