Vale Of Swardeston Poem by Roy Ballard

I walked along the vale of Swardeston
in mid-July; a biplane crossed the sky,
a rambling relic of another age
as tardy as the bees that bumbled by.

A single bell struck twelve; it sounded near,
with happy, childish, voices, far yet clear.
Along the river mingled mint and sage
and boggy-scented mould perfumed the air.

My questing dog swept through the meadowsweet
but passed discreetly by the royal bowers
of willow herb, a wonder among flowers,
resplendent queen of pink, fantastic towers.

Now winter comes to flood the rutted track
and summer leaves are huddled in the bud;
The wonder is that wonder can come back
but willow herb is waiting in the mud.