A view so familiar,
better known to me than my own face in a mirror,
a gentle patchwork of fields and woods,
a little corner of my country,
the core of my world.
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Trees on the skyline
guarding the old Roman way
watching the ghost Legions of Ceasar
passing ... passing, never to stay.
Woods sprawl willy-nilly in the valley
a tiny river runs gaily through
and farmers colour the spring fields
green, yellow and linseed blue.
Old farm cots snuggly huddle
hidden off the beaten track
tucked cosily away in secret
by barn and rick and stack.
Those tiny fields, those rolling fields
fields that knew my fathers tread
lie rich under plough or are fallow left
in springtime, once the winter's fled.
The seasons come, the seasons fly
warm under sun and blankets of snow
this glorious patchwork rolls forever
land of my heart and all I know.
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