Roses are red, parking signs are blue - here’s a poem an SNJ reader from Nailsworth sent on through.
I LOVE Nailsworth and hate the thought of it being defaced with parking meters.
Besides, such meters would make a mockery of a poem I began one spring while cycling down the A46 from Ruskin Mill’s farm shop.
Here’s part of it
How I love free-wheeling down
To you, my little Cotswold town.
The wind is whistling past my ear
But still I catch the hedgerows’ cheer;
Young birds are singing, loud and clear.
This road’s now twisting like a snake
As if in Nailsworth it would slake
A raging thirst.
Past Shipton’s Grave, the Old Bath Road
Unleashes all that gravity’s stowed:
That Village Inn that I flash past
Is where good beer and banter last
And in that sturdy old town hall
Strutting thespians still enthral.
At Spring Hill’s foot, as though ablaze,
A shimmering sallow softly sways;
William’s Kitchen’s weeping willow
Freckles trout and dapples minnow,
Washes Nailsworth’s fountain stone
With fleeting visions, glimpsed, then gone.
From Norton Wood, the Nympsfield Road
Unveils a gift that Nature sowed…
A mile of hill, the whole way down
Before I reach my little town.
At Forest Green, when Rovers score,
A thousand lusty pagans roar;
At Arkell’s Recreation Centre
A winning smile will bid you enter;
At Nailsworth’s Church of England School
They try to teach The Golden Rule:
Treat Others As You Would Be Treated…
Then we all win, and no one’s cheated.
Brake hard! Slow down… on Chestnut Hill
The mood is calm, serene and still
For here, as modest as a mouse,
Nestles our Quaker Meeting House
Where God’s been found since 1680,
At times remote… at others… matey.
Refreshments? Tea? To quench your thirst?
A giant kettle! You’re not the first
To stop, to pause, to stand and stare
And fill your lungs with Cotswold air
And know, for sure, you’ve time to spare,
For tall stands the town clock at ten-oh-three
When the market’s humming and parking’s free.
Anthony Hentschel
Nailsworth
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