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Ribble Valley. by James Walmsley

On finer days I’ve walked this country,
pondered nature’s beauty intently.
Trodden paths through wood and field,
and revelled at the delights revealed.

Sweet honeysuckle a magnificent tree,
perhaps a wasp a humble bumble bee.
A harvest mouse a plain old shrew,
maybe the remains of what once grew.

Silver streams so blissfully flow,
through vale and woodland grove.
Natures canvas a wonderous sea,
such a gift bestowed upon thee.

Aromatic scents of ripening fruits,
flocks of birds like trained recruits.
Swoop from above and take their fill,
then rise and fly as is their will.

As evening beckons in dappled light,
and sunlight slips into starry night.
Tawny Owls hoot and Foxes screech,
please tread ye gently I beseech.