Through the lime green tree tunnels
The road funnels only the lost and the knowing
Flowing along the lanes with old given names
Into this hidden sceptered isle
This country mile
This jewel
This Royal Oak
Ales, tales and the noise of folk
Jokes and overheard mumbling
Tumbling into the evening air
From the head cracking low door
Over beer soaked hardwood floor
Time trickles slow
And what they know is strange
While change upon change; their world stays the same
Full of walkers, talkers, strangers and neighbours
From the garden, by the stream
I dream that Kipling, Blake and Belloc wandered here
To cheer their muse, to de-confuse
And I hope when Kitchener called upon the local lambs
Those luckless lads’ fond memories were of supping upon a draught
When they raised their glass and laughed their last