A young girl, tugged along by Mother
Drags her umbrella to catch the rain
Skips over a mosaic of sodden leaves.
A cyclist coasts past, looking ahead
Where a couple strolls through the mist.
The story unfolds around them,
In the trees lining this woodspath -
Now straight, now bent in homage,
Casting down crowns of copper and gold.
Stripped of glory, yet still stretching high.
Their rustle, caught up on the wind,
Sounds a groaning past all words.
Here is what Francis loved:
Not nature, but Creation.
Here a world dying to self
Here a world set afire.