Carpets of Gold
Ages old, these carpets of gold.
Cover the valley floor.
Soften the scene,
The stream’s careen,
Gently, as before.
A trillion times over,
The trees did inflame,
Released their load,
Like gentle rain.
To a restless bed,
A fountain head, under the trees,
Blown about by fickle breeze.
We lie as before on this soft, warm cushion.
Making love to the water’s percussion.
As the warm sun brings a sweat of skin,
And we lie languid amid the din.
Of bees buzzing in the late afternoon.
Hurry, …Winter will come soon.
Copyright 2002 © Ronald W. Hull
Credit: Heather's Gallery
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