Never to tire of a view
That wouldn’t my eyes offend,
Where green grass meets sky blue
At land and journey’s end,
The trees’ branches half clothed in leaf
Stir in the wind and bend,
Some storm cracked and broken
That nature couldn’t mend,
Here birds alight, rest and call
And to their mate shrill messages send,
How could I tire of a view that changes?
As each season descends,
Where grey granite rock meets green sea
At land and journey’s end.
Diane Scantlebury
