Taylor Lanson Taylor Lanson
Recommendations: 13

I can't help but feel you are making a criticism here. :p

Harry Wells Harry Wells
Recommendations: 15

I just might be but criticism of what, please? What does the :p mean?

Please login or signup to add a comment to this paragraph.


Add comment   Close
Harry Wells Harry Wells
Recommendations: 15

Glanford Brigg to Caistor Top


Share this writing


Link to this writing



Start Writing

More from Harry Wells

Requiem for a Hedgehog
Loneliness
Purple Hair on the Barton Bus
Wisdom Comes
A Poetic Mediocrity

More Poetry

Deborah Boydston Deborah Boydston
Recommendations: 45
Murder in the Senseless
Leoni Carlson Leoni Carlson
Recommendations: 12
Expressivity
Aaron Greene Aaron Greene
Recommendations: 30
Author's Clog
Leonard a. Wronke Leonard a. Wronke
Recommendations: 23
JUST BECAUSE
Kitchera Hicks Kitchera Hicks
Recommendations: 11
soul mates

In older times Lincolnshire was famous for its wool production. The gentle hills of the wolds where I live provided perfect country for shepherds to move their sheep between high and low pastures as the season required. The small communities of rural workers have now almost gone  replaced by enclaves of high quality houses that workers on the land cannot afford as prices inevitably rise.


      The way from Glanford Brigg to Caistor Top
      Is crossed by ancient drove roads no more used
      By shepherds who moved flocks in early spring      
      Down from high wold slope to sheltered pasture
      Where ewes would limber up for lambing time.      
      
      And from here you'll see the heights around you
      Make voluptuous descent in greeting
      The level lands of Lincolnshire where
      On the horizon Lincoln Cathedral
      Emerges slowly, gowned in morning mist.
      
      In coombes and hamlets where these roads once led
      You'll find no rustic garb but city suits.
      Where once the wagons rumbled four wheeled drives
      With white wall tyres that have no trace of mud
      Make stately way down herringbone bricked yards.
      
      Yet if I squint my eyes and hold my breath
      It's then I fancy I can see the crook
      And fustian smock of long gone herders
      Leading lambs that gambol 'tween their dams
      And then I know I have found happiness. 2 comments


Link to this writing

Share this writing


Next: The Second Time for Everything