Green, the smell of pine
as we tread needles into the ground
on our stroll about the forest on the edge of the year.
The new can be seen from over the way,
only the trickle of an old river
keeping it separate now.
Yet in a few hours,
the trickle will stop,
and the seedlings of trees will shoot up into saplings
in a whoosh of breath, colour
We will step together, hand in hand,
onto the fresh forest floor
ready to take in its delights and terrors