POETRY

Dies

A poem

Photo by Y on Unsplash

This is the day!
Follow the way!
Of the brown-lined paths
Within the oak tree cracks.

Beneath the bridges low,
Where the roots grow,
Where the streams trickle and seep,
Where the secrets sleep.

Past the amber stone,
Where the nightingales have flown,
Of the branches that sway,
Of hidden paths that lay.

Through oak leaves so green,
Through the river's copper-sulphate sheen,
Beneath moonlit creeks,
A place where quietness itself seeks.

If you trod not the path usually designed,
You'll find what's yours and mine.

The end.

Photo by Patrick Fore on Unsplash