My small feet sink into peaty soil,
The purple heather polishes our boots as we walk,
Cocksfoot grass seed and burrs stick to our clothes.
The glorious golden sea of yellow whin bushes
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Hi Bryan, this is a wonderful poem and brought back many happy memories from holidays with Granny and Granda Dunn at the top of Binnion Hill. Granda was always whittling stuff out of wood, or quoting poems, or telling ghost stories: how I wish I'd paid more attention to him now. I haven't been back to Binnion for years, and it would probably sadden me to see how much it's changed. Like you though, I've got my memories. Long summer days, racing through whin bushes, and granny's scones hot from the oven! Edward Clements
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Hi Bryan, this is a wonderful poem and brought back many happy memories from holidays with Granny and Granda Dunn at the top of Binnion Hill. Granda was always whittling stuff out of wood, or quoting poems, or telling ghost stories: how I wish I'd paid more attention to him now. I haven't been back to Binnion for years, and it would probably sadden me to see how much it's changed. Like you though, I've got my memories. Long summer days, racing through whin bushes, and granny's scones hot from the oven! Edward Clements