From its precarious perch on the edge of the bank
Catching the fleeting voice of the wind
And bringing it down into the roots of the holloway.
Yellow-green field maple leaves
Filter the slanting sunshine from above
Creating a cathedral of stained-glass light
Sanctified by terce-time birdsong.
The fields beyond are drenched with dew
But here, beneath my feet, the fallen foliage
Is dry and drained of summer's sap
Weaving a tapestry of faded colour.
Sitting on a stile: I smile
Looking back
At a morning's moment's magic
In the shifting spell of the seasons.
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