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. . .