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~ 1 ~
In my far away mind a picture is formed,
Memories so pure that my heart is warmed,
Over the wide seas was my English home,
With fields of green and grey roads of stone,
The land of the Chaffinch, the Blackbird and Thrush,
Snow laden fields where the Red Robins blush.
Where the Sky Lark spears upwards into the blue,
From the Daisy lain lawns where the Buttercups grew.
I recall the yellow of daffodils and tulips of red,
The bloom of the crocus now that Jack frost has fled
In the trees the rookeries; starlings under the eves;
The Blue Jay and Cuckoo both colourful thieves.
All the colours of Autumn and the colours of Spring,
And the toll from the belfries as the tower bells ring.
~ 2 ~
Through the Snowdrifts we waded going to school,
Wet mists wrapped around us freezing and cruel,
Overcoats and scarves and jumpers and vests,
Three pairs of socks into boots firmly pressed
Holes in our soles cardboard liners all wet,
Freezing our toes each time we did step,
Fingers so frozen they just wouldn't move,
Too hard to undo; coat buttons and shoes.
The privet hedges rewarded with mist silvered webs,
And the occasional protrusion of little beaked heads
As we slid down ice slides on the hard frozen paves,
For that is the way a young rascal behaves.
Snowballs and icicles snowmen and joy,
Made those freezing cold Winters mostly a joy.
~ 3 ~
We searched for stones in the *Chaddesden brook,
That were smooth like pearls with a gem like look,
Among the frog spawn and the white stone gravel,
Though it was a long way from the village to travel.
The water was cold though the Summer sun,
Burnt the skin off my back which was not much fun.
We made bracelets and rings with the stones glued in,
And you could wear them as a broach with a safety pin.
It was a fast flowing stream and the bumble bees,
With the butterflies and the weeping Willow trees,
Added to the aspect of the beautiful scene,
Where our footprints marked where we had just been,
For the grass was a kind of silver green,
In the fine mists of the morning when it was first seen.
~ 4 ~
From Shrovetide football in the Henmore brook,
Or on the Ashbourne meadows or in a shady nook,
To the Bakewell valley near the river wye,
'Tis a land for which bold soldiers die.
And they drink at the bar in The Pack Horse Inn,
Not far from the Water-cum-Jolly Dale grim.
And oft to the ruins of Dale Abbey we went,
Picking up nuts beyond the river Derwent,
The Dale Abbey Arch is all of forty feet high
And the Cat and Fiddle windmill a delight to the eye.
And the Waste Wood Forests around Spondon Hill,
Though plundered and maimed remain there still
And Elvaston Castle now with it's superb green park,
Still casts a shadow where it stands white and stark.
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