The Buttonwood

One day while wandering with a friend Down country road to river’s bend, A wooden bridge o’er country mile, Alone, we sat there for a while. ‘Twas in our youth this late September Two souls took rest above a river, Where rocks and roots o’er hung the loam To touch the swirls of turbid foam. Red leaves held in the runnel’s grasp Slipped on the rills then quickly passed From bend to bend on winding rush With waters brink and autumn blush. Downstream, an elm grove stood rank Held closely to the rooted bank. Amass, sent forth their scaly arms To shade the creek with all their charms. Amid the bent and shedding yellows, The faded green of handsome willows, A massive trunk with ancient growth - From seed, fast anchored to the earth. Note a buttonwood in mottled white. What graced this giant to pious heights? And rise so high above its peers To conquer the wind unnumbered years. For upward, splendid limbs unfurled. Grey bark gave way to skin of pearl. Beside the creek, far leaning out, This buttonwood grew strong and stout. Even now when wandering nature’s trail By water’s edge, through lonesome dale, Per chance, to see a buttonwood. What weathered years it must have stood! Far longer than that late September And friendships no more remembered. But glints of broad and palmate leaves Cast soft reflections on the creek. Like leaves on rills, they slip on past Pushed downward by some torrent blast, Where time has piled the matted ground With autumn mist and umber brown.