Spirit of Cheshire

Swathes of summer green are seen across the peaceful plains midst narrow winding country lanes.

I hear the distant cooing dove, and tireless tractor drone, over verdant pastures.

Birds chatter in the trees above while fox and badger forage greedily beneath.

Swans grace the lakes and waterways amongst their fellow waterfowl, with elegance and poise.

Up aloft in pride of place, and dual role, our castles stand erect with watchful eye, in vigilance, continuing their regal reign of ages; reminders of those former times when battles ravaged savagely destroying all around.

Scrambling up the sandstone paths beneath the laden boughs, my feet sweep through tender emerging blooms and swelling bilberry fruits, into glorious sun.

I traipse across high heather tussocks, buffeted by breezy blasts, upwards towards the summit.

Excitement fills the soul as I view my world, which unfolds before me revealing all.

Far away west, Welsh mountains stretch in purple dusky hues, and way down below scattered dwellings dot the scene.

I spy half-timbered farms and villages. All have tales to tell. My mind imagines how it was. I thank God for tranquillity now.

To the north The Mersey calls, and if I squint, I see the glint of cathedral spires.

I turn to the south and there beyond, the Shropshire Wrekin, in isolation stands.

From Cheshire’s Beeston Hill I am master of it all.

Here, I am close to Heaven.

Rosemary Graham