This Old Creek

Forest, green as far as the eye can see

tho’ a washed out yellow by the horizon,

fallin’ back, there’s some loggin’ timber

an’ within steppin’ distance is cold slate

stones layin’ flat across this old creek

where pools of water gather like children

playin’ in the sun that’s a-sparklin’ there,

nearest, is the greatest prize of the day

flowers, pretty as any meadow or tended patch.

Autumn

Lilac petals on a flower
drifting to and fro –
oblivious to where
the wind will next-time blow.

Walking here’s a joyful
but solitary pursuit –
burnished leaves, strewn around
trampled underfoot.

Breathe deeply,
burning logs mix with cold night air –
a gentle season closing,
Winter almost here.