The old drawbridge at the Halfway House

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There was late afternoon, early winter sun;
slanting through autumn trees,
It was not molten gold, gilding the leaves with midas rays,
didn't highlight a special tree with it's glowing halo
or breathe gold-dust light through the diaphanous canopy.
It was just late afternoon, early winter sun
slanting through autumn trees, you know what I mean.

The river: wide, shallow, flowing over and around big mossy stones,
reflecting the light, It didn't look like a ribbon of silver,
or an abstract of light and dark in moving monochrome,
it was just a shallow river in the shadows of the trees,
you know what that's like.

The leaves were turning, some were falling,
floating down, landing in the water.
gold and copper, amber and saffron, they were none of these,
just autumn leaves, you've seen the colours.

Despite the movement and noise of the river
rushing to join the eternal cycle of all water,
The rustle and falling of leaves, surrendering to the tree, letting go,
It felt very still, I wanted to capture the stillness, bring it home,
but I couldn't hold it, you know how it is.