Past the old gnarled oak tree, a hundred or more years old,
Under the wide wooden bridge
Beyond the gurgling stream,
Among the mottled bark and feathery leaves of the willow trees,
Towards the world I go.
 
Onto the wide moors,
Around the glassy lakes,
Amid the spirits in caves from long past,
With their memories in me,
I regard the world through your eyes.
 
Near a wood of bronze, black and green trees,
I look back, and,
In my mind’s eye, I see my home, a tent under foliage of green,
The dappled light blowing softly in the breeze,
As I continue to travel on.
 
The wind rushes past,
Flying by on puffy white sails,
The mane of my steed, rushes past,
Like a glossy, rippling, brown waterfall,
I look towards the future and the travels yet to come.