A market town

A market town stands
quiet between city and coast.

Beyond tidy rows of small houses
rests a sea of endless green,
waving with the brisk winds
that carry a faint chill.

Narrow roads carve up
the forest and wood, ancient and wild,
dividing field and forage with
delicate, finger-like lines.

From the high ground, above church tower,
Autumn’s bounty can be seen
to unfurl as the arcing trees
cast off their summer clothes.

Come then, heavy clouds,
to the hill peaks and valley trough.


One thought on “A market town

  1. Every time that I read this poem, I feel a little lurch of fondness for the poem and the little market town.


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