Humble to follow the ways of those Dymock poets.
We walked and talked from Queen’s Wood to Kempley.
Across fields of red Gloucestershire mud,
And unmarked pathways to Dymock Church.

We walked, we twelve, in early April sun and wind.
Traversing meadows profuse with natural daffodils;
Low of stature, groups and patches,
Bright along the banks and hedge sides.

The whirring call of Curlews,
The mew of Buzzards
Winging the air,
Hovering above us.

Returning by evening Malvernwards;
To read and talk of those great poets
Whose presence echoed there.

[name removed at their request]