The Goyt is closed: a poem

The Goyt is closed, no path ahead! You cannot pass, the notice said The storm has wreaked it havoc true The way is closed for me and you "But is it?" My enquiring mind has questions of the defiant kind Where there's a will there's usually a way I'll make up my own mind, if I do say Not a soul did I see on the path Which in parts resembled a rural bath But the squirrels still searched and the birds still darted Unperturbed and ever light hearted With trees uprooted and branches broken the storm and its winds had clearly spoken But now there is peace and the air is quite still The landscape redrawn at the artist's will A swollen torrent fills the ravine Where once meandered a trickling stream Hurried along with astonishing force As if impatient to fulfil its course. At last I reach the broken bridge A sorry sight and a temporary hitch A stream to cross, a bank to clamber then back on track, the woods to wander I probably shouldn't have followed that trail The notice was clear and the bridge 'had' failed But I'm glad I tasted the forbidden pleasure For it made more delicious the woodlands treasures