There is a place so oddly named though bloody stained
it does not roll easily from unschooled in local history lips
as other embattled places that have been less sadly drained
by a curving creek that perfectly mimics an unplanned trip.
What rolls behind is green, brown, and pastorally sound
and the trail from the bloody bridge to the bubbling ford
is quiet and sun-dappled from the banks to a rising ground-
silver pools leave half-leaved trunks through mirrors pored.
Walking noiseless as possible despite the autumn crisps reborn,
still no way not to flush the rutting stag to quickly sprint uphill
or cause the sleek grey owl to spring and sweep across the corn
as the nascent oxbow turns against the muddy banks and spills.
Around the yellow bend other magic may suddenly appear
but, ahead and alone in hazy fall, it's wonderfully quiet in here.