No one will visit us in the country
As they have to drive up a windy road
Made of dirt, guarded by a horde of trees,
Not offering much room for a wide load.
We can nestle in our tiny chateau,
Listening to the low of the neighbor’s cows.
The wild grasses are allowed to grow;
As wind blows, they join in uniform bows.
The winter snows will eventually come,
Locking us in the valley until Spring.
The weather will continually drum
As we enjoy the freedom that it brings.
I’ll revel in the mountain solitude,
Not believing my escape to be rude.
John Collings 