Some people look out to the mountains,
Down the valleys and up the streams.
The rain falls like water from fountains,
And sits on the ground whilst it gleams.
Then darkness comes and covers the valley,
As the night drives coldly on.
Owls hoot and squawk in endless rally.
But tomorrow they'll be gone.
Woken up to the cockerel’s call,
The rain now finished and dried.
Birds of black will sweep and soar,
Then perch upon the mountainside.
The sun continues upwards,
Into the slowly whitening sky.
Before the heat shoots downwards,
And starts to mature the Rye.
The sun now in the centre of the scene.
the warmth drifts away and then,
The rain starts to fall and gleam,
As our story starts again.
Anyways, keep writing.
