Gently goes the sea here,
A whisper on the shore,
Angry are the seagulls,
Settling thorn their score.
Windmills softly turning,
Hillsides green and grey,
Clouds are overcasting shadows,
Against the summer's day.
Magic yet so human,
A place for man and beast,
Beauty: rugged, edgy here,
All for your eyes to feast.
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The tides sing a song, As soft as the sky, The pull of the waves, And the clouds way up high. The foam of the surf, Like horses of sea, The salt on the air, Nature's timely decree.
Walking over the summit of My Hill, looking solemnly down this chosen valley, I spied a wood Green, of conifers and ivy and holly and pine that so surprised me in this blank, dull, grey Winter.
Smokey cape shrouds the mountains, drifting through rows of dimly silhouetted trees, rising. Mountains and mountains and mountains thick and sprawling with dark green and with hard sheaths of rock.
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