If I could sculpt my love,
search for finest porphry,
I would spend my life and carve
fit for Rome or Athens to rival
The Long Mynd heather laden high above the Shropshire plain
awesome in its beauty; fearsome solitude when winds blow;
walkers with two sticks, packs upon their backs
climb green hills to gain the top.
The long day closes,
safe with moth and fox,
silent owl and timid badger.
I wait the sun, paths tripped
Flag Fen Peterborough
This the land of squires and spires
stone and brick, slate, deep eaves and thatch
stubble fields with open gates and welcome.
Quarries yielding ore and stone, soon for
The view across the wood
so different from the spring,
cold and down to minus six.
Ferns have dropped their fronds