Somewhere in Perthshire, where autumn painted the woods brown, yellow, pink and red,
was the promenade to my cottage, surrounded by leaves that the trees had shed.
Somewhere in Perthshire, around my vicinity, I took shelter under the trees,
where the autumn bliss pacified me with a touch of divinity.
Somewhere in Perthshire, where I relished the psithurism,
there was a mellow of rustling leaves and the strings of my golden lyre.
Somewhere in Perthshire, where there was a foliage of myriad leaves,
I pictured them like the pages of a book, where my thoughts were inked,
and I would smile reading them on every New Year’s Eve.
Somewhere in Perthshire, where I wandered solo on my vintage car,
I would stop along the side of a hill road after endless hours.
From the hilltop, I spotted my cabin nestled in the woods.
And somewhere in Perthshire, was a soul like me, who always remained a Nemophilist!