The perfect picture
The perfect picture in my mind,
Seems to be composed of so many irregular, wonderful shapes,

The rock there, will roll off, plumb the depths of rivers, eroded, lie as a pebble somewhere.
The warming sun in the sky, will climb the skies and scorch, set fire and turn the picture black.

The green grass will grow wilder, hide cracks and venomous snakes.
The river will break its flow, leaving a dry dying river bed behind.

Nature will turn feral, killing the lambs and sheep,
The grass hiding tigers, lions and wolves: and at such a fierce pace.

... So much for the perfect picture, should I expect to be fooled by the now again?