The essence of purity,
Born of the green grasses,
And thorny briars,
Of the English plains of old.

Like the loyal hound,
Never willing to abandon friends,
Standing up for what is right,
Condemning what is not.

Like the fallen feather,
Spinning through the still night air,
With a certain type,
Of quiet beauty.

Staring up at the purpling mountains,
Framed by the sunset and the onset of dusk,
Listening to the wind in the leaves,
Across the tiny street.

Hearing the insistent barking,
Of the family dog,
Watching the lazy washing,
Of the assassin waiting to ambush your spaghetti.


Feeling the pencil,
Moving as if of its own accord,
Sketching out the picture,
That lies in the recesses of your mind.