Standing on an old wooden bridge, <br />I look upwards towards a hilly ridge, <br />Where trees of every shade of green, <br />Hug the sides of a deep ravine, <br />And gentle paths are found, between <br />Bushes and shrubs, where they convene, <br />And one can happily walk for miles, <br />Past so many wild creatures domiciles. <br /> <br />Whilst scanning the river bed below, <br />Watching a meandering, peaceful flow <br />Of water, trickling over the weir, <br />So sweet to drink and oh, so clear. <br />I study the minnow and stickleback, <br />Then realise I'm without my anorak, <br />For I perceive there's a chill in the air, <br />Of which I've suddenly become aware. <br /> <br />So with an audible sigh, I start to leave, <br />And my way homewards, I start to weave. <br />Then just for a moment, I stop and pause, <br />Marvelling once more at this great outdoors.<br /><br />Ernestine Northover<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/this-great-outdoors/
