Rambling

A group of people, large or small,
The number matters not at all,
Providing all those present there
An interest in the outdoors share,
And like to wander paths and fields,
Enjoying whatever each one yields.
The sound of birdsong in the trees,
The rustling noise of a gentle breeze;
The bleating of sheep and mooing of cows,
The meadows full of summer flowers;
The trickling of the numerous streams,
Sunrays on water so that it gleams;

Squirrels racing across the ground,

Tails waving, making hardly a sound;

The crunching of leaves and twigs as they walk,

The words and laughter of lively talk;

The warmth of the sun as it shines from the sky,

The chill of the wind rushing speedily by;

Brambles galore, which can catch on your clothes,

The sharp stinging nettles which everyone loathes;

Freedom from traffic - no cars whizzing past,

Or the chance of being caught in a lorry's strong blast;

The smell of the air when it's wet by the rain,

And also the plants, till they dry out again;

The buzzing of bees as they roam overhead,

The sight of some poppies, their petals bright red;

So much to enjoy as one rambles along,

Things that just to the country belong.