J F Dominic Briars Poet I do not know?

Highfield, My Field

Highfield, my field,
It’s where I wonder. 
It’s down the path
Just over yonder;
A little forest,
Silent and still.
Over run,
With Unfettered will;
Knotted thorns, 
Of a bramble Bush.
The charming song, 
Of a fieldfare thrush;
The air is still, 
No wind did blow.
And Bury me here,
When I grow old.

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