Misty morning,
Early October,
Lets us know
Summer’s over.
Gilds the hills
With golden haze,
Promise still
Of Autumn days.
So it was,
So it glowed,
As we took
The rolling road
To Cheriton
‘Till we came
To the Flower Pots Inn.
There a brewery
Once had been,
In days long gone.
So many blooms,
Massed and mounded,
Quaint old building
Quite surrounded.
And an orchard
Lay behind.
Many an apple
Still to find.
Through the village,
Comfortable scene,
Red brick houses,
Nicely nestling,
Round the well-kept
Village green.
Beside it ran
A clear chalk stream,
Waving weeds,
Crystal, clean.
Flash of fish,
An extra treat.
Trout perhaps?
The size to eat!
On each bridge
Iron signs,
Warning, from
Former times,
Heavy traffic
Should not cross.
We walked lightly,
Took a path,
Shade with moss,
By a fine house
From the past.
Along the track
Through hedges thin,
We glimpsed the fields
And hills between.
‘Till we come
To a massive beech,
High in its boughs
A sort of tree house.
Wood bars ladder,
Too steep for us,
Kept the den
Out of reach.
After pondering,
Builder? Owner?
Once again
We set off.
Open country,
Staring sunflowers,
Blooming “midi”,
In mid-Hampshire.
Anybody seen Van Gogh?
In the ditch,
Totter’s treasure.
Dumped detritus,
New and old.
Pots and buckets,
Jars and bottles.
Which ones might be
Antique “gold”?
Down from the hill
To river and mill.
Wild cress grew,
Abundant and free.
Some had been cut,
[Would we could too]
Take it home
For our tea!
Homely cottage,
Pretty as a picture,
In its tiles
And warm brick walls,
A dozen colours
Sure to please.
Wooden hives
Set in the pasture,
Waiting for
Late summer’s bees.
Back through fields
To the inn.
Waiting too,
Our tardy friends.
Welcome smiles,
Lunch within.
So at last,
Our lovely walk ends.
