In Praise of Home

The rolling hills of Rossendale that stand so firm and fair

Can call to me across the years and reach me anywhere.

Their hollows filled with light and shade - for artist's brush and pallette made -

Stand purple in September's light, in winter's chill bedecked in white.

Through spring the wonder of new birth with bursting bud and pungent earth,

In summer, soft with clover bed, a place to dream to clear the head,

Yet spectre-like when swirling mist descends with rain clouds' chilling kiss,

So fresh at daybreak's dawning light, clear and green and dewdrop bright.

I love these hills where nature's sounds like music on the ear abouds,

Where night owls call from treetops tall when velvet night envelops all.

Some folk may yearn to travel and some to live in Spain

And some may stray to Timbuctoo and ne'er be seen again,

Yet though I visit many lands and sail across the sea,

The rolling hills of Rossendale, the gentle hills of Rossendale,

Will still be home for me.