Misty Hills

 

Say, was this once a county town,

With cobbled streets where children played

And dreaming spires against the sky

And leafy squares where passers-by

Could gossip in the shade?

 

Ah, here a pretty hamlet stood,

With cottage gardens, quaint old shops,

And awkward bends where buses stuck

And Tudor inns and farmyard muck

And lively village hops.

 

But concrete jungles crushed their charms

With sunless precincts, superstores,

Gigantic car parks, clumsy ramps,

And trunk roads lit by sodium lamps

And odious parking laws.

 

But God be praised, some villages

Have scarcely changed in fifty years.

They nestle among misty hills,

With market squares and water mills

And darkness no one fears.

 

Their hedgerows border quiet lanes

Where sheep still stray and foxes roam.

No smoke, no fumes, no traffic jams,

Just tumbling streams and bleating lambs

And farm lads trudging home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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