by Douglas Pugh
Rolling hills and valleys, too,
covered at dawn with glistening dew,
buckled in the west by Cambrias mass,
upon those hills, only hardy grass.
To the east, shimmering plains covered in mist,
with rocky, hard Wrekin, like a throbbing cyst.
Stitched with a silver ribbon, Severn,
helps to drain this green-covered heaven.
Growing over now, man’s old black scars,
until he makes more, to move his cars.
Many a field of yellow, waving wheat,
do feed upon your, oh so sweet,
black and rich, fertile soil,
upon which many ploughs will toil.
Many a gnarled oak and silver birch
with probing roots your treasures search.
But still through rain and sunshine, too,
you reveal more joys for me to view.