Amidst the moorland’s gentle sigh,
Where rolling hills kiss the sky,
The heather blooms in purple hue,
Beneath the dome of endless blue.

The oak trees stand with ancient grace,
Their branches weave a timeless lace,
Whispering tales of days gone by,
As shadows dance and leaves comply.

The river winds through verdant glen,
A silver thread in nature’s pen,
Singing songs of life and time,
In harmony, a peaceful chime.

The English fields of green and gold,
A tapestry of stories told,
In every blade and petal bright,
Nature’s poem, pure delight.