Now that summer is here.

 
That first sup of cold ale,
European lager to you son,
half the village has gone to France,
on a bucket and spade holiday.
 
The church bells toll,
I said the bull,
because I can pull,
that dream of England
and clean fresh water in the Berkswell well.
 
The river Blythe,
awaits the night fisherman,
the water bailiff watches it chug past,
under the old stone bridge;
sheep undo the time,
cooling around the shade tree.
 
The children shout in the playground,
by the churchyard;
geraniums look scarlet,
in this blushing day.
 
Ice cream is sent up,
to the Parliamentarians,
thinking of peace,
in the Bear in Warwickshire
and the serving maid ,
folds me my Guardian.
 
Two plus two equals four
and the village shop is open.
 
~