The town with a hill.

 
I could smell the wood smoke,
burning like the desire,
of your catholic magic shops,
to make a difference.
 
A thin fit gardener,
said he had walked to Street,
the other day,
he wore strong Clarks shoes;
I told him my grandmother,
had lived into her eighties,
with diabetes,
 
I drank some water from the thin sparkling spring,
coming out of the wall,
but could only make it halfway up the hill;
a fit mature lady, there are lots of them,
told me of the bus that takes you in summer,
to the back way up the Tor.
 
Thinking of the potter that was kind to us,
I give the beggar a coin.
 
My friends were waiting in the Pilgrims
and the stories that they told,
went down easily.
 
The expert house painter,
was finishing of the window of the smart cafe,
he came from Birmingham;
lottsa stick people,
doing the day's shopping
and Burns the bread
was coming up to its day in malt barley and poetry.
 
~