The South Downs

THE rolling downs of England reach from Hampshire into Kent;Their beauty takes our breath away amongst the wild herbs' scent.They gently rise and dip to gaps cut in the chalky scree,By rivers flowing cross the Weald into the silver sea.The Downland grass is centuries old and grazed by sheep and cows,While dewpans gather rain for them below the windblown boughs.

The common blues go fluttering by seeking out the sun,

In sheltered hollows facing south '“ sweet nectar to be won

From marjoram, thistle, thyme and vetch, wild strawberry, rock rose

And then alongside bumblebees, they quietly rest and doze.

The skylark rises high above warbling its joyous sound,

Then sinks down, singing all the way, until it nears the ground.

Old churches, houses, boundary walls use flint seen on your walk

And lies there on the surface, having sweat up through the chalk.

The Sussex Downs are cherished well and high in our affection,

But pressure builds upon these hills '“ they must have more protection

From inappropriate planning which might ever leave its mark

Astride the lonely grass lined Downs; we need a National Park.

Don Filliston