The grass flats lie prostrate,
rustling leaves begin to sound.
Whispers travel through sun-touched planes
Over rolling green on every mound
On vibrant fertile fields, whose plenty shows a summer’s spell,
A symphony of odours waft on heated winds propelled.
This tamed landscape where beauty grows,
In tidied grounds and forests wild,
Amid soft song of branches old,
Free from loutish hand defiled,
Inspiration brings great humility
When asked to sketch this land’s grand symmetry.
Trespassing in the gnarled wood,
I sully silence with vulgar breath,
Amongst the trunks that years have stood,
Where history’s secrets have been etched.
Their author that has no peer,
Their beauty no words could bind,
In contemplation treading here,
A final thought enters my mind,
That no phrase, nor stanza, nor metre, nor rhyme,
Could ever capture this land divine.