He sat on a rock by the banks of a stream
he was armed with some paper and pen,
he jotted down thoughts that came in his head
his first poem was formed there and then.

He wrote of the music the water composed
as it danced its way round all the stones,
he wrote down the words of the water birds song
and he wrote of her colours and tones.

He wrote of the warmth from the mid summer sun
how it shimmered and hazed over fields,
he wrote of the dust a tractor kicked up
and his poem was starting to build.

He wrote about clouds in the Robin egg sky
their fluffiness, whiteness and grace,
he painted his picture on paper with pen
and the warm summer sun on his face.

He wrote of the calm that came in the air
as the afternoon started to tire,
he wrote of the orange and red glowing hues
of a sky that was blazing with fire.

He wrote of the Martins that took to the skies
the aerobatics and speed of their flight,
he wrote of a day that was second to none
the smells, his feelings, the colours, the sights.

And as the day darkened he put down his pen
and his paper he folded with care,
he rose to his feet bid farewell to the moon
and tipped his hat to all he´d seen there*.