Night and Day

Dark fills the pews,

The graveyard’s quiet too;

Down at the ‘Horseshoes’, fiddles stampede

To the sound of the annual cheildh.

There’s a gold harvest moon,

The pints are in tune;

And all’s fine in God’s country.

The hills of West Dorset

Stretch down to the sea

Past sheep and caravans,

And fields which keep watch

On who we once were and how we should be;

While here on the beach,

Clouds crane for a view,

And the waves look

Almost innocent

Today.