Striking down into the valley, amidst the winter silence,
Amidst high thoughts and high hopes, we speed our way
With freshened our steps, wending and bending,
To find the adventures of the day.
Sarre Penn, little stream looping through our days,
Looping through your sands and clays,
Making audible your motion with little glockenspiel notes.
You are heading towards the Swale and the bigger seas.
On we go, passed the horse field and more pools,
To Reculver; and the jays call us on, and the jays call us on.
They call us on to the oxbow where the boys crow
And where the hornbeams glisten in the sun.
Over and across the Penn to the far side
And up to the brown of the trees beyond we go.
Frigid winds and topping hills are our specialty,
Snatches of the past wile away the time whilst field edges pass us by.
On and on we go, crossing roads, swifty gliding.
Striking out across fields, other walks remembered.
Beautiful green, Lincoln Green, lovely colours, splendid holly –
We ask for a sprig or two as we go towards the pines atop the hill.
Through and through we go, passing plantations and shrines,
And gates passed passing us on to the road.
And on to the plastic wonderland house
With the plastic wonderworld grass.
Peeping over the fence we get the gist - not for us this world.
We want natural browns and blues, brilliant tendrils to amaze,
And sharp sharks' teeth on stems along with dusky trees and other hues.
The wind whistles our tune and freezes our lips as we motion on
To a sacred grove just within the wood. A grove of a single tree.
The spindle, the sweetest tree displays pink tresses to the world.
We stop to gaze in awe. Veneration to the blushing bride,
Laced by pools of periwinkle around.
In and in we go tripping along the paths.
In and out we weave making towards the dancing hornbeam trees.
We rest and when replete venture on further to another place,
Passed the birch and move on to the roads beyond.
Wealthy Hoath is next to be reached,
With its tidy inhabitants, its neat hedges,
Its clean lanes and cosy church built of pudding stone and flint.
We take the left fork then the right, we go bending to the wind.
Tracks passing geese and willows, tracks passing fruitful trees
And monstrous trees, lanes passing gilded oaks.
The trees mark the way and we mark the time till at last we espy
The Gate! open for porter and for warmth on this fresh St Basil’s day.
This is a place of pleasantries, a place to linger maybe.
We are at this place, at this time; it fills our space and it is good.
But the low sun hangs noiselessly behind us as we reach for the coast
Hurrying on before the afternoon eventide is drawn in.
A dérive of sorts and the Sunday Sport is blowing in the wind
And glitter skirts are gathered in.
Antipathy is making us wonder on our way,
Anticipation is now taking us on our way.
Quickly Reculver is reached passed barking dogs and caravan parks.
The towers of St Mary's stand tall. Her towers so white and so bold
Shimmer to passing guillemots as the light begins to fall.
Not only a maritime beacon, a beacon to the human story too.
We arrive at last at this, our chosen El Dorado and rest against its strong walls.
We take the last of our remaining vittals and watch the people pass.
The cars drone, we become blind in the falling darkness; we stumble home.
This is a grand day.