TRYSTING

A winding road through the bright-leaved maples,

a hillside orchard where a girl sells apples,

a brown cow pond with wind stirring ripples.

 

A narrow path to the river shallows,

a strip of pebbles under the willows,

a muddy bank where the otter wallows.

 

The old stone bridge across the water

beside the oak where thrushes flutter o’er

ghost-white flowers where moths sip nectar.

 

The village street, dark, with circles of lamplight,

a call and a laugh, the squeak of a lychgate,

a soft step, a sigh, a quickening heartbeat.

 

Just playing with sound. . .

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.