Walsall

Walsall’s quiet streets, where leather’s scent still clings,
A town of forges, where the blacksmith’s song once rang—
Now brick and glass sit cheek‑by‑jowl with market stalls,
And laughter spills from pubs on bright autumnal walls.

The canal winds slow, a silver ribbon through the green,
Reflecting pewter skies and swans that glide serene.
In the park, old oaks stand guard beside the children’s play,
Their roots entwined with stories of a bygone day.

From the Walsall Arboretum’s blush of rose and thyme,
To the hum of factories that kept alive the time,
The borough wears its heritage with modest pride,
A tapestry of industry and countryside.

So here’s to Walsall—steady, warm, and true—
Where every cobblestone whispers, “I remember you.”