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.