As my readers know, I suffer from occasional bouts of poetry. They are similar to migraine headaches except I don’t get the nausea, you do. Fortunately, they aren’t chronic episodes. But alas, here again the budding poet feels compelled to write…….
I am beguiled, by days still mild, that beckon me to stroll,
So I get dressed, to start my quest, for nutrients for my soul;
I pick a trail, that will avail, some pleasing sites to seek
And soon I’m bound, by sight and sound, to set upon a creek.
A waterfall, though very small, still manages to awe,
Does its duty, shows its beauty, ordained by nature’s law;
Its banks entwine, both root and vine, encased in hardened soil,
Spectators now, they must avow, to watch the fluid roil.
An image caught, a moment bought, that dwells within a mind,
Reflects the day, and light at play, that water has designed;
Debris floats past, its fate was cast, by tales of past events,
But I can’t know, wherefrom the flow, nor know its journey hence.
Fox gather here, as well as deer, hare and groundhog too,
Their bruises nursed, by quenching thirst, they ramble off anew;
Through day and night, the current’s plight, is set for years to come,
Yet each new day, it does display, a different view for some.
This walking trail, does soon unveil, that fall will fail our vision,
Thus seasons change, and rearrange, there will be no rescission;
Though stay I might, to view this sight, how soon it will now fade,
And yield to cold, and weather bold, that ne’er it could evade.
Al Hood – November 2011