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Swept away in that ever-changing tide,

the thoughts I spin, lost to the waves,

muffled voice of the oak tree, whispering through our heathlands,

carrying with it the leaves that fell,

I walk these white hills of chalk and clay,

carrying with me the nostalgia of a thousand forests,

through which the same wind blows, reminding me of home.

The harrowing cries of a storm gushing through a steep valley,

breathing life into the surrounding ferns,

the ghastly mist that rises from wealdan river, reaching for the apex of the tallest pine tree, an ethereal beauty that cannot be replaced.