Beneath the burdened boughs, where birches bend,
And rivers rush through rocks that time has torn,
The shadowed cliffs, their crowns with pine trees pinned,
Stand sentinel, proud guardians of the morn.
Through chasms carved by countless, ceaseless years,
The water whispers tales of days gone by;
Its misty breath, a shroud for winter’s tears,
A silver veil beneath the leaden sky.
Each trickling stream sings sonnets to the stone,
And echoes dance through chambers cold and vast;
Where silence dwells, a realm of moss and bone,
As sunlight lingers, fleeting, yet steadfast.
The waterfall, a weeping wall of light,
Cascades its crystal chords with thund’rous grace;
An argent arc, a marvel for the sight,
That draws all souls into its soft embrace.
The river curls, through curving cliffs confined,
Its molten silver sculpts the winter’s skin;
While gnarled roots from ancient oaks entwined
Grip granite walls where life dares to begin.
Upon the path, where earth and echoes meet,
The fragile frost dissolves with fleeting flame;
Beneath bare limbs, our footsteps firm and sweet,
Trace tales that timeless, towering stones proclaim.
The afternoon, aglow with golden hue,
Finds stillness stitched in shadows soft and deep;
For here, in late-day’s light and lucid view,
The earth exhales her secrets slow to sleep.
Michael Stephen Wills Photography 