This is another of mother’s poems. It is probably circa 1935 pre WWII, and is, perhaps, inspired by Wordsworth.
You’re the loveliest thing I shall ever find,
Ploughed field on a hill with the sky behind.
Secretly smiling in the winter sun,
And knowing with serene expectancy
The finished cycle once again begun
Enfolding safe the year’s new infancy.
A thousand thousand turning years have rolled
Their seasons on your ageless placid face,
Emperors and Kings in purple pomp and gold
Have waxed and waned, faded and left no trace.
But you are the same on the brow of the hill,
Living and living, calm, ceaseless and still.
Unheeding the restless weary beat
Of countless futile pounding feet,
Leaving behind for all their toil,
Not even footprints in your soil.