This is the pale green part of the map.
Leaves tumble onto the grass's lap.
Nobody crunches them underfoot.
All of this place is a gap.
The speeding train mocks the stilly scene
Or is it mocked by the languid green?
Our days fly by, the world stays put;
Beauty is in between.
Beauty is somewhere along the way
Somewhere we never get to stay.
Something we saw out the window pane
On a Winter's day.
Like the clean smooth fields that lie outside
The city, the village, the whole world wide;
A field lying fallow, an empty lane,
Aloof without pride.