The stream played thick and heavy,
      in the red dawn, of the darkest night.
Tree-lines aghast in the kindling,
      of the Summer Solstice fires.
Upon the sunrise, on the banks among the foliage,
      time tracks into the overgrown trails.
In a deliberate folly, the seasons pass
      as the blended wood, welcomes unwavering change.
Lead back, to dusk, the crisp inviting hum
      of running water, and only a moment has passed.

Black feathers signal an arrival
What seemed like endless roads
Carved rugged into the Earth
Beady eyes welcome this moment

Low valley streams, white rapids
Serenely sinister silence of the woods
Two feet, four paws just a blur
Grounded only by a painted beauty

Sun sets, fire rises, that smokey cinder
Eating,  laughing, living so free
Stars explode through the tree tops
Night summons an absolute darkness

Blood red dawn, a shadow of the day
Walking now, footsteps, running water
Collecting the goodbyes and good times
Naturally black feathers occupy the vacancy

Winter lingers like a petulant schoolchild:
Clouds jostle for position, darkening with rain.
A sudden chilled wind rushes from the storm’s
Leading edge, stirring birds to flight.

Natural drains roar with the shower-fed torrent.
Trickling streams become dark-mirrored cascades.
Wind-blown branches whip sharply, some toppling
Under the relentless beating.

A fleeting slice of sunlight rolls across the distant hills.
The first stirrings of wildlife crash through the thickets.
Robins race for food.  Songbirds raise tentative voices.
The charged air is filled with the smell of wet
Foliage.

The rains would soon resume.  His usual crossing
point had already vanished.  He settled back in his
Lean-to shelter, finished his meal, and pondered the
Approaching darkness.

As rain beats down on canvas,
I squeeze my face through the zip.
The clouds are swelling and angry;
The wind hits my cheeks like a whip.

I retreat to the core of my tent
And trip on the wellies inside.
Still covered in last year's mud,
These purple boots fill my mind.

I am fond of my waterproof shoes.
I ponder their rubbery struggles:
Abandoned for most of the year,
But mighty when dealing with puddles.

The water rises and enters,
It covers my groundsheet in mud,
But I've got wellington armour
To conquer the enemy flood.

I must learn to rely on my wellies,
When storm clouds rumble and growl.
I have come to a happy conclusion:
My wellies will not let me drown.

I squeeze through the zip of my tent
And plant my feet in the slime.
I am met by a brave fellow camper
Wearing wellies the colour of mine.

There are porches all over the country
With lonesome wellies inside.
If ever a storm is a-brewing,
Put them on, take it all in your stride.