To Our Delight Poem by Ernestine Northover

I snapped a twig beneath my shoe,
and a startled bird flew o’er my head.
Crisp leaves were sprinkled on their tops with dew,
coloured, each one, in an autumnal hue,
and thickly spread.

Across the park, beneath the trees,
helped by the breeze, they’d descended down.
Carpeting the ground with a cushioned layer.
A splendid scene of such impressive flair,
in shades of brown.

A squirrel always so alert,
stood, rigid, inert and listened hard.
Then with an impish look made fast retreat,
by scuttling off, his tasty nuts to eat,
but still on guard.

Silence fell, no sound pierced the ear,
nothing to hear, quiet peace serene.
Then rutting stags called out to their new mates,
each bellow from a powerful throat vibrates,
their passions keen.

Strange that a twig beneath my toes,
can scatter the sparrows into instant flight.
In a fragile locale these creatures dwell,
to them it’s home and therefore they excel,
To our delight.