I look across to the fields and glimpse
the farmers of yesteryear.
The gentle dip of the valley so green,
The stream still so crystal clear.
The memories live in every hedge,
in every tree, flower and copse.
The distant horizon shrouded in mist
where time and worry stops.
The gnarled old oak, centuries old
that marks the edge of the wood.
where the little stile leads over the hill
to where the tin barn stood.
The whispers of days blow on the breeze
telling of hardship and pain.
The dusty days gazing up to the skies
looking for clouds full of rain.
The ancient rolls of well worked land
hold the secrets of horses and plough.
A rusted out hay rake, a broken old gate
grown over by sycamore boughs.
The path by the well worn down through the years
by sheep on their way to the dip.
The whistles still hang on the fresh summer breeze,
“Here Rosie, here Bouncer and Gip”.
The boundaries marked by age old stone walls
built for our future with care.
The views to the hills that still draw the eye
when time lets you stand still and stare.
The land is eternal, it's only on loan
it's your turn to pick up the reins.
Until the sun sets and you return to the earth
but the hill and the valley remains.