The Call of The Islands

I can hear the islands calling,
with the tall palm trees sighing,
to tell their wandering boy abroad,
not to roam but just come home;
I can see the deep blue sea,
and hear the gulls all calling,
now I must stop my journeying,
for I hear the islands calling.

I know that southern seas,
have lured many others like me,
for beauty is all enchanting,
in the clear, Caribbean sky;
and the tropical nights are romantic,
when the wind in the cane fields blows,
with a Spanish guitar strumming softly,
while a silver moon hovers low.

I can see the white, silver sands,
wind their way along the beach,
then link arms with the ocean,
and gently embrace the sea;
I can hear the sounds of the surf,
thundering along the shores,
and smell the air, the salt and spray,
while the waves rumble and roar.

I can see the children playing,
in the sparkling, waters blue,
making castles in the sand,
or digging for clams in the foam;
I can see the lime as they gather,
while everyone takes a drink,
and gaiety is spread in the air,
till the tropic moon starts to sink.

I don't want no northern lights,
nor ever-cold hospitality,
nor fast moving Cadillacs,
when the islands are calling me;
for to feel the trade winds blow,
is to lure your soul on home,
to the islands in the sun,
with a charm and thrill all their own.

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