With the clouds all assembled to guide us out,
Many paths once visible to choose from at French Beach Park,
For earlier filled with colours so memorable,
Now mysterious monuments like lone sentinels wait,
Innocent and really the wild rosebushes,
And many a wind blown trees of the mountain ash forsake,
Only these Indian Summer dusk events,
Could cast this glorious light and a veil so precise,
Too leave us all in silhouette but shame the passing gales,
Everything born to be natural waits in silent beauty,
As now we all move along in perfect harmony,
Like the gentle song of rustling alder leaves,
Calling to guide us closer into their familiar grove,
And we leave the skies of dusk in Indian Summer so pleased.
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