There is no path I’d rather roam,
than these narrow lanes about my home,
to leave my troubles far behind,
as I follow its track to places kind.
Past verges green and crops of gold,
up gentle hill, along valley fold.
past flower meadow, over silver stream,
as I lose my thoughts to natures dream.
Perhaps this is the path my ancestors walked,
where a lonely shepherd dreamt, where lovers talked,
I feel their spirits wander by,
as we journey unseen together, beneath summer sky.
A distant church spire, tall and grand,
beneath which villagers pray, for health of their land.
I join with them in a silent prayer,
for the beauty around me I see, I solemnly swear.
For along your path there is no wrong
just pretty flower, and bird of song
Natures beauty all around,
to fill my sight, to fill my sound.
Past English oak, through pastures new,
wherever you lead i shall follow you,
for you are my England, you are my home
and along your country lanes, my soul shall forever roam.
By Chris Plows ©