Warwickshire, a poem

                                                                                        
Rolling, rolling, ever rolling,
Clouds of thunder and dark.
Shining, shining, ever shining,
Sunlight, songs of the lark.

Deep and roving, those wandering hills,
That lie softly in the mellow folds,
Of golden grasses that wave,
Warm and glowing in the dusky gold.

The sun's own funeral,
Orange red pyre,
Drawn deep into the sleeping trees,
Leaves burnished with fire.

Lost in the warm summer eves,
Bones old and tired,
Clouds drawaing in the blanket of night,
Upon the gentle, honest shires.