Letter To America
We wish we could show you our Island home.
by Marie Bowerman Taylor
This Isle midst angry sea and foam.
We call it our Haven - our England,
We call it our "home-sweet-home".
We'd show you the Surrey woods in Fall,
You'd hear the murmuring streams.
You could touch the moss on cottage wall,
And walk where the bright moon beams.
We'd tell of London - a city - a world!
The wonder of Regent, the glory of Kew.
The Abbey, the Lords, the flags unfurled,
The policemen, the cafe's - not forgetting the zoo.
Then there's the cider that comes from Devon,
And the honey straight from the bee.
Believe me the West is a corner of Heaven,
With it's romantic past history.
There's the sloping hills of Dorset,
That sweep gently down to her shores.
There's the gleaming spires of Oxford,
And Yorkshire's welcoming moors.
There's the shimmering lakes of Westmoreland.
And Cumberland's Roman Wall.
And the whispering sands of Norfolk,
And the green Sussex Pines, straight and tall.
There's the lace granny loved, from Nottingham,
And the china from Stoke-on-Trent.
The brilliance of light that is Blackpool.
Making "Wakes-Week" the best ever spent!
I could keep pen to paper for hours,
Telling of her glory and fame.
But I know dear friend, from a distance,
It's a case of "What's-in-a-name?"
So here's hoping that one day you'll join us,
On this Island, this gem in the foam.
And like us have wonderful stories
To take to those waiting at home.