I stand at the foot of the valley
and as my eyes look down at my watch
I see the delicious foaming glory
slipping down as butterscotch.
I can smell the flavours creeping
you could cut the air, it would smudge
rolling down, the fizzing butterscotch
tasting like Heaven and creamy like fudge.
The river flows with a taste of the mocha
mocha beans roasted to a superb coffee
The taste you would remember from youth
bashing with a hammer the slab of toffee.
The midday air is more refreshing and still
yet cold like a proper alpine air
Crisp like apples, .
That snaps a dried shortbread
clean tasting like a  nice dessert pear.
The river froths like freshly whipped cream
piles and piles of rich tasting foam
imagine you are sitting in a magic land of poppies
ruled by a chocolate honeycomb.
The cows moo in time with the bells around
their slender patterned necks. The milk
they produce is fresher than the grass they graze
as white as the snow they look at and as smooth as silk
That is my sweet valley.