Fine bluebells where the daffodils once laid,
Such dapper little gentlemen in stir,
To bow in awe upon such sacred light,
Which filters to their seats and makes the land
A home. A pretty grace. The end of sight.

The gauntlet through,
It's hidden blades and crouching hills,
Lie broken on this mounting view,
In the evening air a moment to sit still.

•- •--• --- • -- in Morse code,
Half a language for my abode,
To bare my memory full strength,
On characters two: briefness and length,
Twin summits verbose and universal,
In text or falling snow, a tapped rehearsal -
The pitter patter on the peaks,
The flashing lights and mouth-made beeps,
So I present to you an olden road,
•- •--• --- • -- in morse code,

Rolling fields,
Flow under our treading shoes,
And the world seems to lurch backwards,
Leaving us down along the path beneath,
Punctuating the notes of talked out tunes and hurried feet,
A good thing is found,
In a weary walk of Father and Son.