Breathless whispers linger in newly formed spring air,
grace descends upon this green and pleasant land
we root from, spirit is commonplace and pure,
her thighs, the warm shores and inviting cliffs of Dover.

Her heart;

She loves her sons and daughters on
Sunday mornings, ripples on canals,
lovers skimming stones and crows in flight fight
near old and lonesome friends, these trees to some
are yet proud pillars to others who we perceive,
in brief hourly timeless glimpses

her natural beauty.

On these old and bustling streets:
rain patterns form eclipse of life and death
reflections, light refracting in puddles, melting
into moments with the bravery of lions, roaring.

Does the lion now roar?

Whisper strange island, whisper,
but roar when it is necessary and right,
roar when it is right.
roar when it is right.

Her voice;
roars