Change by Paul Swatridge                1990

I stand by the brook and listen

to water rushing under the bridge.

I step into the darkness

beyond the street lamp’s reach

and hear the restless sighing

of wind in the tired leaves.

My dog’s familiar shape

moves in the disquieting night.

I feel the cleansing bite

of autumn on my cheeks.

My pace quickens against

the chill of the season’s change

and I welcome it with an anxious heart,

heralding the challenge of the new.