Endless Rolling Fields

The Harvest Field, with Church Spire in the Distance by Peter de Wint

Endless Rolling Fields

All my growing years were spent
In villages and country lanes,
Alas !  For I was always meant
For city streets and busy trains
And all those years against my will
Would only serve to stoke my dream –
They stole my time and served me ill,
Depriving me of smoke and steam.
My parents thought it best for me
To live in rural peace,
But I was sick of cows and geese,
And waited for my destiny.

And so I suffered Summer days
With nothing doing but the bees –
I’d wander through the wooded ways
And couldn’t even name the trees.
Some had burrs to ruin jumpers,
Some I’d climb or hang a swing –
Some were conkers, some were scrumpers,
Some had dandruff in the Spring.
But otherwise they were the bars
Around my rural cage,
Their green and brown forever beige,
Their fruits forever trapped in jars.

But now and then, I got a taste
Of glamour, in the local towns –
But oh, it hurt to see what waste
My life had been upon the downs.
For here were markets for exploring,
Full of wonderments to buy !
And here were buildings, gleaming, soaring,
One, two, three, no four floors high !
And that was when those shining stones
Broke through my rural hold.
I knew the streets weren’t paved with gold,
But granite flags and herringbones !

It wasn’t till I finished school
That I was finished with the sticks
I mustered all my pent-up fuel,
And then I ran – I ran to bricks.
I left my folks upon the green,
For we could not be reconciled.
They love their world so small and clean –
I’m surely an adopted child !
But I still visit, for all I knock it,
Back to their rural lot
Just as long as I know that I’ve got
A return stub safe in my pocket.

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