Strolling around the river-island in Bad Oldesloe
Outside, a river flows
around us,
and sings a soft
lullaby.
We are not ready to sleep,
but are gloved to be out and
about.
Walking around the
river-island
is strolling in a fairy tale.
Ginger-bread brick houses
with stepping-stone roofs
huddle together
along narrow cobblestone paths
to keep warm and stave off
the cold breath of autumn wind
whipping about in yellowing leaves.
In the nearby wood,
the leaves lay still,
become a yellow carpet
that leads the way among
tall trees
looking down on their
clothing
trodden upon and ground
into the wet earth.
Playgrounds pop up like
mushrooms
around salt ponds laden with
logs,
and leaves. The place for
curing is
dark, foreboding, quiet as a
tomb.
An occasional twig falls
into
water that ripples and stills.
In the woods, a treasure
awaits us.
A playground offers red machines that
tweak and massage, bring a
tingle
to backs, arms and legs of
those
on their way to second
childhood.
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