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.
Copyright © Francis Jacobs | Year Posted 2020
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