There a few things more beautiful
Than an English sunset,
As the pale yellow streaks across stone-walled fields,
Perhaps a squirrel will pop up its head
Or some bird silhouette itself amongst the sky
Before landing softly upon
A tired old oak,
One side shining as the sun's light
dips lower.
And the pale blue goes to purple,
And yellow to orange,
And ducks behind the hill across
The ancient valley - unchanged for so long.