A POEM I WROTE IN AUTUMN - just found it

Here                                                    Burges, Oct 09

It is not quiet at all,

the walnut and chestnut leaves fall,

in a twist and a curl.

Crisp sweet crunch below,

my feet plough through,

and I gather, and I gather.

It is not quiet at all,

the blue cow’s bell,

clinking and clanking, an endless toll,

A wandering song.

It is not quiet at all.

The warm breeze of the Pyrenees

brings the chop, chop, chop of an axe.

And woolly forests of burnished gold

display their tapestry, and spread beyond.

Rise like the buzzard riding above

And bathe in these ancient woods.

It is not quiet at all,

The children’s shouts of bows and arrows,

and laughing and skipping

and tripping by the stream

that widens and narrows.

Forbidden mushrooms tempting their tiny hands.

It is not quiet at all.

When the full moon rises

and these sun soaked hills

cast aside their russets and bronze

to don their mauve and sulphur tones,

and the gekko strikes up his tune.

And the dog on the ridge joins in.

And I too.