Emerald jewels tucked in between blades of swaying grass.

They gleamed as the sun shone through the clouds.

Those few, rare moments of warm sun lighting up the countryside,

As it has rehearsed so many times before.

Thick and blanketed, the sky held a grey hue.

A hue that cooperated flawlessly with the stormy sea below.

The sea, slamming against rocks one moment,

And gliding with gentle grace across the shore the next.

 

A lone road carries me across the cliffs,

Between towering trees and bundles of mossy stones.

Up through the clouds, I soared, floating along the misty horizon.

Sailing freely across the rolling emerald hills,

And up to the place those hills met the smoky blue water.

Gliding back down to earth,

To once again be dwarfed by sighing branches and composed clouds.

To which, I felt, I belonged.

 

Cliché and expected,

Nothing could compare to the green that glinted from the emerald jewels.

The alluring gems, kept hidden away between unscathed blades of grass.

The hues portrayed such a picture of which artists fantasize.

And that of which, only dreams could create.

All was calm that day, and all was at rest.

But those gleaming gemstones,

And those dreamy hues gave way to the effervescent spirit,

Cloaked with monotonous tones, that was the Ring.