Bello Casentino

 
The ghost of Dante, mounted horse
mist in air, early morn 
 
trees they whisper, taunting clouds 
hovering over forest crowds
 
dawn's light creeping, piercing through 
onto last nights dusk time view 
 
leaves crackling under feet 
colours of autumn brown, orange, dark green 
 
the smell of pungent soaking frond
pools of rain drops 
frogs in pond.