To go this way and tread this path,
Bear in mind the going’s rough,
Uneven, stony, all uphill,
The track itself is nothing much,
A steady climb on jumbled stones.
A flock of sheep already up.
A tunnel through the trees – the home
Of badgers, rabbits, and flapping crows.
At last this hill’s wide brow appears
But now a dirty trick is played:
The path is gated: you must turn right
Along the contour, not the slope.
Take care: a wide brown puddle spreads
From hedge to hedge; your patterned prints
Are adding texture to the mud.
A place to stop, to rest and see
The rising sun is peeping through
The Eastern cloudbank duvet-like
That covers slumbering Oxfordshire.
While nearer blow thin wisps of cloud
Like candyfloss set loose to fly.
The molten morning follows suit,
The blazing sun warms up the sky.