Somerset sky,
Still in a dream-like state,
Pink dawn,
White sun,
Light over a horizon belt.
How could I leave my city;
At once, pretty, and non-descript,
Here there is heart,
The stone istelf glistens in the sun,
Glowing as the same sun its light reflects.
With our near Tuscan Hills,
That scoop us in the valley
Cradles between its knees.
Clouds themselves give way to our view
Above our heads in day,
Is blue, at night, ’tis black
With our full gaze of starlight.
Poplars stretch on the plains, the green,
So threaded throughout it is as if our pavement.
These waters that run through,
This Avon stream, is always dancing,
And ripples reflect stretches of light across
Its face as it parades through the city.
Our great wall of fir trees,
Lined like the barracks at war on higher ground
protect us, prevent us from leaving.
As the daisies spring up,
Circles of youthful shapes form the pattern
Of the daisy head on the grass,
The yellow sun centring their paler pattern.
Horses cross our field,
Gentle-mained and heavy-hoof’d,
Canter through field or graze lifting their heads
To view that man, there, viewing back.
Sometimes the wind
The trees that reach my window
That sees the city overhead
Sway and ripple
Like reefs on a tropical coast.
Sights, what matter sights in the long dead run.
I know my city to be new each day.
I wake daily to a new city;
A new stone ornament carved on to a facade,
A new shadow cast on a familiar building.
A stronger light now floods the street and
it takes on a new colour.
The world comes to see our city,
We give them something to see
What senses the eye might not have,
The ears are given to musicians and singers,
Taste is offered from vendors outside markets,
Smells from perfume shops.
My hand, held by the sun,
A warmth of a young woman overtakes it,
And a soft touch pressed against mine
Reveals a familiar face.


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