In the park with Van Morrison

I am here, on a bench with Van
enraptured by his vision,
feeling his sense of wonder;
the winter sun bright and high
revealing the miles and miles
of night shift silk spun
and caught amongst the
carpet of crisp Autumn fall.
The copse is nearly bare,
the elders of the trees leaning,
catching the whispers of the stream
running unseen, underneath the earth.
Younger trees ,prouder,
luxuriate in their ability
to aim for the sky-
sweet arrogance of youth .
Lemons and limes hang sparsely-
the colours, not the fruits posing
artistically , against ebony branches.
The dog is ecstatic, joining me
in appreciation of Van's fiery vision bright.
He misses a nonchalent squirrel ,
fancying it's chances.
Pete's seen squirrels before,
and he''ll see them again. What's
important for him is the now, nose
down in unmentionable odours
too potent too ignore.