Low clouds of grey left far behind
Exchanged for open skies of blue
Black asphalt trails and dusty fields
Give way to scenes of verdant hue
Beneath the mountain’s misty brow
Beneath the oak trees’ dappled shade
A canvass for the nomad’s brush
A staging post for passing trade
Drink in the cool of whitewashed walls
Drift off to cricket symphonies
Breathe deep the scent of sun-bleached thatch
Awake to birdsong melodies
Past craggy cliffs of rusty shards
Through hidden tracks of forest greens
Refreshed by waterfall cascades
Behold the land of emerald dreams
— Wayne Visser