A/N: Just as an fyi, I happened to be reading “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” at the time and thus can't responsible for its influence on me. Right?

Wondrous expanses of flowing white masses

Broken and brittle, stopped in patches.

The distance tells of big bright thatches

Of untouched startling green green grasses.

O'er the hill the sparrow calls

and watches as its bramble falls.

Tumbling, falling,cascading down,

Hoping and praying for the ground

To catch it safely all around

And stop it short with a sound.

Carried to the broken log,

Sunken deep into the bog.

Water passing on dead thatches

Weeds are breaking through its masses.

The sun goes up as man passes

the beauteous earth, he never catches.