In hues of earth and heaven’s grace,

A Rastaman finds his sacred place,

Beneath the tree, in nature’s embrace,

Writes he his verse, a rhythmic trace.

Adorned in white, his spirit bright,

Crown upon his turban’s might,

Words flow like rivers, light as flight,

On a sunny English day, all is right.

In tracks of blue, a tranquil scene,

With royal poise, calm and serene,

His steed of steel rests by the green,

A cycle of life, in between.

A backpack lies, its contents spilled,

A notebook, pencil, dreams unfulfilled,

Yet in his hand, a phone is willed,

To capture thoughts, digitally distilled.

From meditation’s silent chord,

To biking paths, freely explored,

Each image tells, as if implored,

The Rastaman’s tale, in one accord.

In every scene, his essence stays,

A journey’s man through life’s pathways,

From nature’s heart to modern maze,

His story weaves through sunlit rays.