Rural

I pull my wellies on, the morning air so cool,
Damp earth and hawthorn blossom, nature’s quiet rule.
Beyond the garden gate, where stile meets winding lane,
Patchwork fields unfold again – a living, breathing plain.

The hedgerow, thick and tangled, guards the old grey stone,
Where blackbirds scold the sparrows, seeds freshly sown.
A distant tractor rumbles, low and steady, slow,
Turning autumn’s amber soil where quiet rivers flow.

No rush, no blaring horn, just sheep-bell’s gentle chime,
And sunlight, thick as honey, pouring down in time.
The ancient oak stands sentinel, its roots grip deep and tight,
Watching centuries pass by in soft, enduring light.

Here, muddy boots and patience are the truest, favoured art,
Where weary city thoughts find space to mend the heart.
No need for grand spectacle, just breath, and sky, and ground –
The rural soul, unhurried, is where true peace is found.