Camping

Nights became days that quietly led, Led to the dream in his mind, Where he woke to sounds of birds all around, In the forest of trees from outside, His small little tent, pitched on the flat, Soft green ground, a soft bed, Beside the beautiful burbling river, Flowing around in his head, Then he peered across the silent flat brook, And prepared his line all alone, For the quietest fish beneath the surface, Who swim deep in the unknown, And calmly he cooked, on his primitive stone, His meal of fish, beans and spuds, He sat and relaxed with his now empty mind, About all of the people he loves, Days became nights for the travelling man, At his campsite, his forest, his throne, Till morning next day, when he packed all his stuff, And quietly returned back to home.