Before the smoke of this city sets a fog
That settles and smudges upon return,
Remember sitting in a pocket of time
Soaking up the sunshine of a country dwelling,
When awoken by a gentle morning,
You ran, dream into dream.
Quiet hours built your days,
And Looking out over fields of years,
On crop covered hill top you stopped
To watch swallows scribble their stories,
Dipping blue ink upon sheets of sky.
Sat in stillness, dusk kissed
Your heart listened to the questions
The land demanded of you,
And Whispered a song of home.
