Wheat field

Golden like the summer sun
It reminds me of holidays with fun
The wheat field moves in the wind
Of rain there isn't the slightest hint
Endless waves are rolling over the field
My buried homesickness never healed
In the distance the familiar hills
Hiding two decayed water mills
Surrounded by a beech tree grove
With its muddy pond and a cove
I can't tear myself away from this sight
If I could ever come back I might. . . .