Llama

In the high Andes where clouds cling like wool,
A llama grazes, soft‑footed and cool,
Its fleece a tapestry of earth‑tone hue,
A quiet sentinel beneath the blue.

With gentle eyes that watch the winding trail,
It bears the burdens of the mountain’s tale,
Each step a hymn to ancient stone and sky,
A humble prince where condors seldom fly.

When mist descends and silence draws its veil,
The llama hums a low, contented wail,
A rhythm spun from grasses, stone, and wind,
Echoing the pulse of lands refined.

So here’s to the llama, steadfast, serene,
Britain’s heart may beat far from the scene,
Yet in our thoughts it roams the peaks so grand,
A woolly wanderer of freedom’s hand.