As the wind whistled
and the birds flew,
as the leaves rustled
the next thing I knew—
It was the end of the path
I was so keen to seek,
past the bird bath,
its stream now weak.
And there it stood,
the mighty willow tree.
Its twisted wood,
its leaves dangling free.
As near autumn drew,
there stood the bleak sight.
Amongst the warm hues,
the damp chimes looking alight.
And in my dreams it came again,
as I mounted one of its swings.
But I shudder to think of when it would end,
so I enjoy all these simple things.
YOU ARE READING
creation.
PoetryThis collection of poems is my way of appreciating the world around us, and attempting to put the sheer beauty and wonder of Mother Nature into words. (cover pic or other pics not mine obvi.)
