The lone road of old going on and on,
No place to walk, no place to cross,
Into the woods wrinkled old and dark,
Crossing narrow rivers, one after one,
Amidst the roosters busy at noon,
Behold that lake in the midst of all,
A lake dug out of greed and need,
Shaped like the country it resides,
Herons and coots nesting fearless,
Swans fishing with hidden necks,
Rapid Colne and it soft flow beside,
Silent Frays and it’s own wilderness,
What a sight to behold, in it’s glory,
In an urban sprawl of chaos and madness,
This chunk of manmade beauty, a real jewel.

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