A poem

Ceramic in the woods

My walk is through the thick woods,

on the same trail trodden for ages,

A deer’s footprint left marks of its hoof,

either on a run or a leisurely sojourn.

A small pond hidden by overgrowth lies ahead,

Wild ducks splattering their feathers look out,

On the mark, to fly away they seem ready,

I turn at a safer distance; the alpha’s neck is stout.

A plate and fork are abandoned,

the ceramic china so out of place,

a silver fork lies forlornly cold,

there ahead lie strewn plastics and debris.

I didn’t put the deer here,

Nor the ceramic plate there,

I can live in harmony with nature,

as the  fork to kitchen.