The sun gleams on the Western Sill,
And scarlet-scalds the dying day,
Writhing rivers blush 'neath his gaze, 
Woodsmoke purples in wreathing haze
From the cottages under the hill.

The rustling hills are all a-flame, crimson and scarlet flecked,
While rippling in the evening glow, skim curling clouds bedecked
In lilac, tarnished tendrils of gaseous gold
Twining around the mountain fold.

The old hills, mustered with darkening trees,
Lie lonely, thrilled by sylphine breeze
That rustles viewless through the boughs
And out to where the cowslips browse
On puddling shades of night. 

The village stirs amidst the moors, 
And gas-light trickles'neath the doors,
Over at the old stone inn, 
Villagers swill and joke within
While in the paths that wind around,
Soft-hushed by Silence's own sound, 
That murmurs moods around, above,
And carols purling words of love,
Young lovers wander hid from sight 
Amidst the sinking shades of night,
Dappling shadows near the fen,
Dusking dreamers lingering long,
As slipping stream in silver song 
Syrups softly through the glen.

An ancient Ford gasps up the hill
The tarmac twists, the cats' eyes wink,
A spent Swan Vesta flies, lies still;
A fickle glow of a cigarette
Dulls on dust, and gleams on sweat, 
Two weary hands hang on the wheel, 
The incline's inches the tyres feel;
The headlights stroke the sleeping brink,
The old jalopy jolts and jades,
The chassis creaks, the axles groan,
The feeble engine falters, fades.

The driver stumbles from his cab
A smile dissolves upon his lips,
His harassed gaze he weary-dips
Beyond the woods and o'er the meads  
To a tiny smudge where a window bleeds,
A window of a cottage, a cottage bv the fen,
The war is o'er, the battles won,
the soldier's home agaia

M.S.