It's almost half past three
time to cosy up for tea
kettle's on the boil to brew
tea for two me and you
with egg and cress or
cucumber sandwiches
with nary a single crust
(they were all donated
to the National Trust)
it's after forty to four
shall I be Mother and pour
I know you know Pekoe
the table's set quite daintily
two for tea you and me
and we can sing my song
'Lapsang Souchong'
I LONG
YOU LONG
WE ALL LONG
FOR OOLONG
unless you're feeling more Darjeeling
A hillside of walkers gathering slow
blend with the gold medal fields all aglow.
Kites finding freedom, flutter and flow
as looping Red Kites begin to swoop low.
Families with picnics bask in the sun
whilst ice-cream smeared children playfully run.
Dogs chasing frisbees bark at the fun
as strolling events are just about done.
Rooks search for scraps on the Downs chalky chest.
Footballs pace quicker as if on a quest.
Hypnotic gliders hover like rest,
drifting away, along with my stress.
Serenity cycles. Smiles are on tour.
The wonder of nature is what we’re there for.
The café embraces a coach trip or more.
Benches remember all those gone before.
I view all the tissue-like clouds move along
whilst hearing the skylark sing beautiful song.
The smell of contentment is fragrant and strong.
Our Dunstable Downs is where I belong.
I sat to take a breath awhile,
Looked across the field of green,
A waterfall cascaded down,
Of beauty never seen.
Amongst the forest rising high,
A silent gap had formed,
And in the sun so bright,
A fall of wondrous leaves turned, to feel
Its life- giving, shining light.
Ilam, Derbyshire/Staffordshire borders.NATIONAL TRUST grounds.
Looking across a field there is a massive hill where the broad leaf trees rise in a vertical magnificence and defy gravity.
I sat on a wall and was amazed to see a gap in the very close trees and it seemed as if a waterfall was tumbling down.
It was the light catching the lower branches, but it was absolutely fabulous and a blessing to see.
One of those moments of Magic that Nature creates, if we take the time to notice.
You leave the car at what was once,
in old reality, a farm and where the
National Trust democratise so now not cows
but parking motorists feel alarm.
Across a road are loos, ex milking parlours
still with “stools” and piss
as folk make moves to
an archway leading to a long curved lane
edged with a guard of reeds that,
while obstructing the view ahead
incite its anticipation.
Conducting the children, we lead them
to where the pathway fairs into the beach
framed by those stalks high reach
from their rooting in Arcadia.
Some fresh reality as we quicken pace
through that narrow place into entrancement,
a shout of elements where the claustrophobe
of routines in small spaces erodes into the
expansive sunbed of yielding pearl toned grains.
Here we claim our place below a trope of
salt drenched thrift and campion sea slopes
barricading us from the insomnious land breeze
that keeps conscious plain life.