England

    
Tiny little island, nestled among the foam,
    Ancient land and honoured, whom millions call their home.
Land of gentle lowland, rising to withered height,
    Gentle, sleepy island, yet full of hidden might.

Venerable oaks rise tall and strong,
    The rivers laugh their gurgling song.
Soft winds blow from their lofty seat,
    Lanes of centuries carry hurrying feet.

Up to the sky the rugged hills soar,
    Across lonely moorlands the harsh winds roar.
Breezes play with the grass of the lea,
    The rain sweeps in o’er the sea.

Over leaning gravestones old trees keep watch,
    Gnarled old trunks with many a notch.
Sunshine dapples children’s play,
    The sparkling waters dance in the bay.

Mother land, for whom thousands fought and died,
    How did you inspire such heroic pride?
To you, down the ages, men have stayed true,
    Tiny little island from which an empire grew.

(As seen in This England magazine, Spring 2010!)