The Isle of Oxney
The fields are golden now on Romney Marsh
and where the sky and land meet, walkers on a distant hill stop,
turn as one and listen to a lapwing’s song
and see the last brave flash of poppies in the new ripe field.
How good to be in this fair country when all the news is strife and tears
to stand among the golden fields of Oxney
and pencil in a line or two of verse.