Afternoon love song

Leave your politics, leave your pen,
Leave your income tax return,
Leave your ink and fax and turn -
We're off to the hollows and hills.

Hollows and hills, hollows and hills.
Among the thistles we leave our ills.
They're bottling turmeric over the mills
And there's spice in the air today.

The breeze caresses the grass on the mound.
Fescue and cocksfoot quiver around.
The breeze caresses the leaves in the sky
And birch and beech and aspen sigh.

Hollows and hills, hollows and hills.
Among the thistles we leave our ills.
Scents of cinnamon float from the mills
For there's spice in the air today.

The sand creeps over our naked feet.
The sand in the bunker is ochre and sweet,
And gold-flowered gorse stands watch as we meet
As kindred spirits today.

Hollows and hills, hollows and hills.
Among the thistles we leave our ills,
And cloves pervade as ecstasy spills
And fills the hollow today.