The Jigsaw

 The Long Mynd, heather laden high above the Shropshire plain
awesome beauty, fearsome solitude when winds blow;
walkers with two sticks packs upon their backs
climb green  hills to gain the top
where once itinerants tramped the lanes
for work and mugs of tea,dinner in the barn,
they do for fun and healthy hearts.

Look down the vale white washed farms and wood smoke.
Farmers' calls echo in the valley
whistles and  curses,working dogs obey.
A jigsaw that is countryside, each piece firm,secure.
Horizons long and wide,summer sheep and winter snow,
cockrels crow the day long as hens lay wild
children, home from school, search for new laid eggs
bound for Ludlow Farmers' Market, Thursday once a month.
Time stands still, there isn't even history!

Down Pontsford way they still believe in witches,
the magic hawthorn, Shropshire Prune,
elder flowers in a bucket, wine for Christmas day.
The old railway out of steam the bridge leaping in vain
across the twisted track,shelter now for lovers,
Sunday drivers scratch the walls, sometimes each other!

I know the place by heart love its loneliness;
the land is poor,polluted since the Romans
who took the lead and silver, Victorians too,
Laburnum hedges, planted by farm workers
stolen from the lord's estate in lieu of poor wages
The friendly locals serve good beer and ham,
they'll talk with you,let you in with muddy boots
But when you've gone will lock the door
count the evening's takings,forget you ever came.
Preserve the land for yesterday; keep away tomorrow.