Tweed

In misty highlands where the heather sighs,
A weaver’s loom sings low beneath grey skies,
Threads of wool, in muted earthen hue,
Are spun to tweed, both sturdy and true.

Worn by the keeper on the grouse‑filled moor,
Its flecked pattern tells of ancient lore,
Each speck a story, each shade a sigh,
Of rain‑kissed peat and wind‑whipped sky.

So don your waistcoat, pull on your breeks,
Let tweed be armour for the wandering weeks,
For in its weave lies Britain’s quiet grace,
A fabric forged in time and place.