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

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