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.

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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