Smells in the autumn wood

 There are smells in the autumn wood
Jack can't resist, rabbits older, bolder,
run across his path, ferns less dense
the path a mattress of leaves and twigs,
scents and odours,  burrows new and deep.
I hear the birds, but hardly ever see.
The counter-point rivals Bach,
a symmetry of notes nature wrought
times long ago, unchanged, secure.
We copy best we can, tune the flute
to entertain the pixies in the wood
but mornings dawn in summertime
when all are wake and yet to eat,
more than worth the loss of sleep.
Hear the pigeon's noisy flight the
'caw caw' of the rooks untidy nest,
they come here every year, each time
to build another nest to blow away.
I come for entertainment, to think
important thoughts for which
there seems no time, until I find
it here among ferns and brambles
falling trees and autumn mushroom.
Moods to contradict my whims, to
leave behind with the mull and rain.
Then replete, again for home, another
day until I come again to share;
a little wiser, just a little,
I have much to learn, time flies so quick
and the bird is on the wing.
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