With the backwash woodlands flowing gently,
Time has released all those delicious hues to saturate,
This primary land known only for the woods which are silent,
And the wild creatures have seen us coming and flee,
They could not be tamed easily but know of our worn down paths,
They'll rest and when we sketch they come to drink their fill,
For our journey which follows this land so vast,
Is like the riverbanks that holds its precious waters back,
This winters stream that falls gently away,
Will not remain untouched at Burns Bog,
For soon the arctic hand moves south to grip this land.
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