The Lane

The Lane

Where the lane ends,
stand two spotted fawns.
Ears twitch and bend
as I watch in the dawn.

A sight fit for kings,
just a peasant am I.
Above the birds sing,
wisps of clouds in the sky.

The midmorning light
sifts down through the trees.
A sensory delight
in a soft spring breeze.

A shiny new coat
in the bright sun rays.
One single note
of a song nature plays.

In the deepest woods,
they'll hide from harm.
Not gone for good,
just a false alarm.

Their pure eyes gleam
as innocence lends
beauty to the scene
where the lane ends.

© Copyright 2005 T.L.Finch (UN: t.l.finch at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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