Poetry in the Cotswolds

 

Walking through a forest just now on the Cotswold Way, I came across a spring, and right next to it, a “Message Box”. Inside the message box was a little book that hikers can leave their memories in. 

There was a cute poem inside, about two walkers from Bristol, which inspired me to write my own. Here it is:

From Glendalough and over hill 

To Dublin town he came

And took the ferry o’er the sea 

To Anglesey the famed.

And walked the Wales Coast Path he did,

Through wind and rain and sun, 

And down the Offa’s Dyke until

His feet said they were done.

So to the gentle hills and vales 

of England he then turned

Along the Severn way he went

And the jubilee trail discerned.

Then down the Cotswold way he trekked,

until he found this bench

This blessed, lovely, wonderful,

delicious, friendly, bench.

And here he wrote his story, 

One that is not over yet

For many a mile awaits him still

Through dry days and through wet

Across the channel

And ‘cross France

And over mountains tall

Until he walks into Saint Peter’s 

As the leaves begin to fall. 

And what is then

The next part of this saga that I tell?

It is the story that you’ll write 

Who read my little tale

Walking through a forest just now on the Cotswold Way, I came across a spring, and right next to it, a “Message Box”. Inside the message box was a little book that hikers can leave their memories in. 

There was a cute poem inside, about two walkers from Bristol, which inspired me to write my own. Here it is:

From Glendalough and over hill 

To Dublin town he came

And took the ferry o’er the sea 

To Anglesey the famed.

And walked the Wales Coast Path he did,

Through wind and rain and sun, 

And down the Offa’s Dyke until

His feet said they were done.

So to the gentle hills and vales 

of England he then turned

Along the Severn way he went

And the jubilee trail discerned.

Then down the Cotswold way he trekked,

until he found this bench

This blessed, lovely, wonderful,

delicious, friendly, bench.

And here he wrote his story, 

One that is not over yet

For many a mile awaits him still

Through dry days and through wet

Across the channel

And ‘cross France

And over mountains tall

Until he walks into Saint Peter’s 

As the leaves begin to fall

And what is then

The next part of this saga that I tell

It is the story that you’ll write 

Who read My little tale.