The hills, some ploughed brown, come undulating down, framed by verdant green hedges,
forming the edges, where flocks of crows squawking, are already stalking the tractor.
It’s seen, moving along the tracks in-between the fields neatly sown with wheat to be grown.
After stopping to heap, some food for the sheep that range o’er the fells,
and fresh fertile dells,
its occupant gazes stock-still, in this place so tranquil.
A sheepdog circles around, then on command goes to ground,
as the farmer shuts the gate, on the space they both vacate.
It’s their time to return for tea, or a glass of cool shandy and relax,
and so unwind, thus replenishing the mind.
The countryside then lies at rest, and there on the crest of a ridge, owls glide,
now that it’s eventide.
These creatures in flight, are a wonderful sight as the moon sends its beams,
on such fabulous scenes.
And with sunrise the next day, another impressive display.
Moist dew o’er the grass, is a start unsurpassed.
Yet the hills stay the same, and no one can blame the new wanderer’s sheer bliss,
at a view such as this.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem