A décima poem as an exercise, because I find this form extremely difficult. Not sure why. I do know I’m not a big fan.
Mornings walking where the dew falls,
In the dripping meadow grasses,
Where at night time badger passes
And the tireless nightingale calls
To the moon and when a star falls,
In the grass I find the places,
In between the flowered spaces,
Where life that knows wild freedom crept,
While we and ours soundly slept—
I never see their wide-eyed faces.