OVER WENLOCK EDGE
The wind whispers along Wenlock Edge,
Then, growing in force,
Whips through tall trees
In a giant green wave.
The old escarpment curls and breaks,
Tumbling its woods down below,
Into a green sea flecked
With sunlight instead of foam.
How fortunate that Nature chooses
To wear green;
So soft on the eye,
So full of infinite shade:
The new green of spring,
Ripening too soon to lush summer,
Mint and sage, lime, fern and emerald moss.
The leaves of blackthorn, bramble,
Alder, rowan and slender new ash.
Leaves weave their wattled archway
Over my walker’s path.
The forest parts at Major’s Leap,
Where Mary Webb’s heroine
Was hounded to her death,
Still clutching the fox in her arms.
A patchwork of fields,
Now “Gone to Earth”,
Stretches far over the plain,
To Haddon Hill on Long Mynd.
But at this time of year,
Green fields become corn,
Green leaves take on a touch of autumn,
Turning brown and crinkly …
And soon will fall.