Three Willows
A
Andrew Blakemore
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Three willows bowed towards the lake
That slept in placid slumber there,
A mirror of the morning skies
So blue, yet held a chill.
Like flames that flickered in the breeze
Their weary leaves were fading fast,
Towards the call of autumn days
And soon they would be gone.
Some floated on the water's edge
While other's sank into their graves,
Some lay upon the stony path
In patterns where they fell.
I saw the pictures that they made
In tapestries of burning gold,
That changed with every gust that blew
And never were complete.
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