The brook is largely unnoticed
by busy people in this materialist world.
There is a slither of verdant grass
and on this sun-kissed autumn day
the water is a sparkling silver and flows
swiftly after the the rain as a cool breeze blows.
It lies next to a funeral home,
the creator of life by a place of death
and I stand on the quaint bridge
watching leaves race each other,
a willow tree drinking, flowers swaying,
a magical sight behind a stone wall,
an oasis in a grey urban sprawl.