The Jigsaw ( The last of a trilogy on the Shropshire Hills )

The Long Mynd , heather laden high above the Shropshire plain
awesome in its 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,
farmer's calls echoing in the valley
a whistle and a curse, the working dogs obey.
A jigsaw that is countryside, each piece held firm, secure.
Horizons long and wide, summer sheep and winter snow,
cockerels crow the day long, hens lay wild
as 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 Pontesford way they still believe in witches,
and  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 lords 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.