Attenborough Nature Park Poem by Stephen Wylie

The River Trent is wide and deep,
Its swirling waters secrets keep.
Who knows what lies down in the ooze,
Below the turgid murky flows.
Scudding clouds bring light then shade,
As I stroll slow from glade to glade.
Between the trees I catch a glimpse
Of birds who doze or dry their wings.

On the towpath cycles hurtle,
I stand writing, then must scuttle.
The ringing bell fear-filled portent
Of speeding cyclist quite intent.
Apologies that are not meant
Spill from their curling lips.

People walk and idly chatter
Of business start-up or computer.
They fail to leave their world behind;
Mundane cares deprive their mind
Of the peace they came to find.