 |
| There is bryony in the hedgerows |
 |
| There are acorns on the oaks. |
 |
| The last butterflies sip in the last flowers. |
 |
| Dog roses turn to red haws and hips on the bush. |
 |
| Elder takes on a mantle of black jewels. |
 |
| The footpath cuts across the furrows in single file. |
 |
| Leaving the curves to the lie of the land. |
 |
| Grazing in the knee deep grass, the sheep meander up the hill. |
 |
| The final flowering of meadow flowers nestle in the hedgerow. |
 |
| Sun and shadow dapple the green lanes. |
 |
| Whilst neat farms dwell in the nest of fields and trees. |
 |
| Purple flashes in the green, catching the eye. |
 |
| Whilst teazles dwarf the signs inviting you on. |
 |
| History can be found tacked to the brick wall. |
Or standing on the side of the road.
Homeward bound.
