“Falling Asleep”

When the surface of the brook is silent,


it’s sonatas waltzing in the oak leaves,


all warm and gold in their sweet-smelt shades of age;


when the azure bathes in cloud-grey

to crown the red dressed earth,


which summoned down its celebration colours;


then is the wisest of times to stand

on a bridge overlooking the creek


and to hear in the rustle the echoes of thoughts

abandoned in streamside reflection.


When the forest is festive and alone;


when the world is bright and dreary;


when the earth is most beautiful, living nearly dead.