A broad street, with grassy banks And cobbled walkways either side, Lined by trees with gnarled old trunks, Viewed from windows with leaded lights.
Squat little houses with solid walls Of pale, blond stone, and slated roofs. Bow-windowed shops, their doors with bells That tinkle merrily at slightest touch.
A coaching in with colourful sign To welcome travellers from afar, Beckoning them in to spend some time By the cheerful warmth of an old log fire.
An ancient church, set back from the road, Approached through lychgate, black with age, Past grassy mounds and leaning stones, Memorials to folk of long gone days.
The broad street ends – becomes a lane, With woods and fields on either side, Winding on through changing scene, Leaving the village far behind.