This is a poem which I wrote while travelling from India to Pakistan in a bus.
Ahead, the ruddy red of the mountain rises
With the road cutting ever through,
All the twists, turns, and surprises,
'Till it reaches the endless blue
(This Stanza was written as we were passing some fields and a river)
Clouds of all sizes grace the sky
While the greenest of grass billows through the meadows
Outside, the farmers thresh their rye,
As the wind is wending through the willows
Time has passed, sunlight begins to die
The meadows darken, and on them shadow falls
The murders of crows start to fly
And the farmers retreat to their halls
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