a gate leads the way as the path is wet from rain, footprints left as a reminder of where they have been, trees fallen where the wind has blown in, leaves of many colours scattered across the muddy banks pine needles rest on top of the bridges wooden floor as dogs bark in the mornings mist, as they chase balls once more. water sounds like rain drops as it runs over the mossy rocks as the mornings sun shines on the floor dead on 7 o clock,wind whistles acroos the tops of tress as i stand beneath my eyes take in the view as my ears listen to the woods singing the blues,,

Good job :)

ty appreciated

No problem. Writing poetry is a lot of creativity and like telling a story in a certain amount of time.