Dragons Poem by Edwin Hopper

In unkempt yards of privacy,
supping coal from hollow hills.
In old tin sheds, where few folk see,
there's dragons, live in Britain still.

Grumpy men, with Merlin's skills,
and hands of iron, like olden days,
wield spanners forged in giant mills,
to coax them out of sleepy ways.

In England, summers come once more.
Weyland's Hammer strikes again.
They hear it call, like days of yore,
and steam, away down quiet lanes.

At dusk, far off the motorways,
the maids who know how magic's made,
brew tea, in leafy gypsy lays,
as Dragons Breath, fries eggs on spades.

Then, field of wonder, mere mortals adore,
at Tarrant Hinton, as dragons roar.