Wagon

On quiet lanes where hedges sigh,
An old waggon trundles by,
Its wooden wheels a creaking song,
Carrying memories along.

Painted in muted ochre hue,
Its canvas top a weathered view,
It bears the hopes of market day,
And whispers of the travellers’ way.

Through misty dawn and amber dusk,
The waggon moves, steadfast, robust—
A humble steed of timber made,
Where stories in its grain are laid.

So roll on, faithful waggon, slow,
Through village green and winding row—
Your creak is England’s steady beat,
A rhythm felt beneath our feet.