The landscape in purple mists, silence pervading,

Then gathering from a distance, the insistent cries

Of skeins of gees flying across Slinfold's vast skies.

Ebbing and flowing as they feather the air

Animals grazing pause to listen and stare.

Sun and mist rising, there's the church steeple

Clock ending BST and rousing the people.

And as the sun sheds farewell warmth to the year,

It entices more geese and the bark of a deer.

It highlights our treasures in the paintings beneath,

Fiery flamed forests, crimson hued leaves,

Seeds and fruit scattered, a bush cricket in my hair,

Flash of mink in the garden, a fresh fox's lair.

Verdigris lichen in the churchyard, gold-finch teazels by the streams,

Flower fungus in the woods, hedgerows full of mammals dreams.

Then it reaches late November and all seems rather bleak,

But tunes of hope pipe from our native birds' beaks,

And as Arctic winds blow and cut to the skin,

Even more songsters come tumbling in.

Grab your hat and your coat and look up to the skies,

Relish each day afresh to delight and surprise.

May this awareness of beauty sustain and inspire

And remain with you all through the rain, sleet and mire.

Look to the clouds, and the sun and the geese,