as the willows whispered quietly,
next to the tinkling waters,
the sun sparkled gaily,
in the tumbling stream.
bands of gold and silver,
clear water and sunlight,
a flash of colours,
a trout fast in the darkened world,
of tree shadowed waters.
Never changing tranquility,
a border on the inner peace,
not a bad word nor painful cry,
unravaged by man’s influences.
A dark shadow crosses the sun,
and is gone,
faint on the horizon,
disappears quickly from the memory.
the willows are immortal,
the waters always flow,
you just have to take time,
to remember.
Peter Holland 29/5/1990.
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