The rustling of dry leaves
The crunch of stone
The lonely call of a magpie
And the solitary whistle of a locomotive
Lost in the evening mist
–
From banks of languid, brown waters
To gentle tided coastal inlets
My heart wanders
–
Far, far above the pollution and grit
Far from the grim progress industry has gifted
Away from the mill of souls and its high hill of human tailings
To a verdant island
And warm cinnamon skin, bathed in pastel sunsets
