When I dream of places to which I have never journeyed, I do not dream of bustling cities. But rather I envision fields of sun warmed lavender perfuming the air I breath. I dream of oak savannas carpeted in blue bells and sun dappled hills where crowds of daffodils dance in every passing breeze.
I dream of deep pools of forget-me-nots and arbors smothered in roses.
From earliest memory I have forever been enchanted with flowers, by hillsides draped in rainbows of wild flowers, by woodland streams whose mossy banks are carpeted by marsh marigolds in early spring. Of this do I dream.
I am far more entranced by clusters of snow drops peeping from beneath a mantle of snow than I am by any man made artistry. I dream of April violets in middle of winter.
Should I by good fortune encounter a fallow deer in some woodland glen I am more deeply moved than I would ever be by all the crowned heads of history.
The song of the cardinal breaking the icy silence of mid winter is more moving to me than the greatest symphony. There is no more profound drama than the turning of the seasons: Nothing is more sublime than the glorious brindled colors of an autumn sunset.
I envision no paradise more beautiful than the astonishing beauty of out island planet nor would I dream of spending eternity anywhere than in earth’s warm embrace.
I dream of heather covered meadows and lonely rock bound coasts where sea gulls sound their lonely cry above the wild Atlantic and I memorize the jeweled star patterns in the midnight sky and know myself to be forever a child of the earth as I have always been and so remain through all the ages yet to come.