A Summer’s Ramble


The glass canal’s etched by the stylus
Of the angler’s scribing weight,
With fly-stitched hat across his eyes,
As snores drift up and congregate
Beneath the sagging, ponderous boughs
In summer blues of yawning oaks.
The moorhens walk on stilts of green
From reed-built castles in their moats.
The hump-backed bridges bow and sag,
The patchwork meadows tucked in hedges
Drape the slumbering earth in quilts
With mediaeval dykes for edges.
Lancashire lies fast asleep,
Dreaming its ancestral past,
As I walk through its market garden,
Deep inside the looking glass.

21 responses to “A Summer’s Ramble

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