January in England

On the Malvern hills white snowdrops bloom

A cherished life but over all too soon

The grass is frosted, gives our shoes a smack

Looking West we’ll see the mountains Black.

The weather rolls and rotates like a clown.

As I walk, I am my favourite tunes

I want to run away with half a moon.

Not a human Voice to spoil the track.

No percussion,with its lively clack

Maybe there’s a witch but where’s the broom?

One way we see Wales, its Celtic sounds.

Where the Anglo-Saxons ran to ground

Behind us, Saxons’ cider we don’t lack

Enchanted orchards,Newton is in luck

The soft breezed air makes Elgar seem profound

Abandoned verbs are turning into nouns

I welcome comments and criticism

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