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. . .


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