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