Ranch

On the soft‑hued hills of Somerset’s green,
A ranch lies still beneath the wide‑blue sky,
Where cattle drift in quiet, steady sheen,
And lorries hum a low, contented sigh.

The farmhouse stands with timber beams and stone,
Its shutters painted in a muted sage,
While sheepdog paws tread soft on well‑worn stone,
Guiding the flock from dawn to twilight’s stage.

Across the meadow, clover scents arise,
Mixing with earth after a gentle rain,
The hedgerows whisper secrets, old and wise,
As swallows dart in arcs through sunshine’s strain.

When evening folds the land in dusky grey,
The ranch exhales, a calm, enduring sigh,
Stars prick the heavens like distant lanterns’ play,
And dreams of tomorrow drift on lullaby.