It is here...

It is here....

As if Van Gogh; with a pencil strike alike
Cleaved greenish meadows; to let it all end in a dyke.
To create white clouds of a wanted shade,
as they travel this land, by eager men in centuries made.

Where cows shape a jigsaw of black and white
And the sun is curling, colored gold to create fierce light
Of windmills that stretch their woody arms to reach
And were farmers weekly for their families preach.

It is here were the fight for existence has flourished
And harvests grow if needly nourished
It is here; in this flattened lands below the sea
Where people are honest, direct and blessed to 'live in free'.